


The Improbable Match

by elle_m, sherlockianworld



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Bullying, Child Abuse, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Pining, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen John, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, Texting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-11 01:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 67,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_m/pseuds/elle_m, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockianworld/pseuds/sherlockianworld
Summary: When Gregory Lestrade decided to play matchmaker, he did not realise that his harmless plan would change the lives of two damaged people forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: please read tags. This story contains many possibly triggering elements.

Greg was about to take a sip of his coffee when his mobile phone buzzed for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes. Even without looking, he knew exactly who was bothering him during his usual mid-morning coffee break. Sighing with resignation, he paused his coffee cup in mid-air and reached in his pocket for his phone. He knew there was no use trying to ignore Sherlock Holmes. He had learned the hard way that if he didn't reply to his texts, the boy would find another way to contact him--Sherlock had once stormed into his office during an important meeting with his boss when Greg had not answered his numerous calls.

Greg looked at his phone and flicked through the text messages, unable to suppress an eye roll. He was not surprised to find that Sherlock was once again requesting something that would require him to break the law. Placing the untouched coffee on the desk, Greg sighed again and typed a reply to him: "You know I can't give you the victim's phone number. I would be breaking the law and could lose my job. And besides, it would be extremely unethical."

Greg slumped back in his chair and was just reaching for his coffee when his phone buzzed again. And again. "Oh, c'mon", he groaned in frustration and picked up his phone, but before he even had a chance to click open the text messages, it started ringing.

"For God's sake, Sherlock. I'm not giving you his number. Will you please let me drink my coffee in peace?"

"Good morning to you, too. I know you're desperate to solve this case, and in case you have forgotten, I'm your best chance of doing so. And technically speaking, you won't be breaking any laws if you just happen to forget to lock the door to your office when you leave for your post-coffee trip to the loo."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Greg closed his eyes and sighed, "I swear, one day you'll be the death of me."

"You'll thank me later," Sherlock said in his usual cocky tone, ending the call without saying goodbye.

Stunned but not surprised, Greg listened to the beeping sound of the disconnected line for a moment before lowering the phone from his ear.

There was no denying that Sherlock was right about his being desperate--his consulting a high school student with no education in criminal justice whatsoever was definitely something only a desperate man would do--but he hadn't yet reached the point where he was desperate enough to risk losing his job.

Pulling his fingers through his already slightly grey hair--he was only in his twenties--he sighed and pondered his options. He could give in to Sherlock's demands and risk his newly acquired position at the Yard, or he could ignore him. The result would be the same either way; Sherlock always got his way.

Greg picked up his phone again, and he knew that he was close to giving in. Again. Opening his contacts he started scrolling. Donovan, some other colleagues he didn't know very well, and then a name that made him stop and hover. John Watson.

Greg had met John in his PE class in his last year of high school, and despite John being a junior, they had soon become friends. They shared an interest in sports, and John's easy-going manner and humility made it hard not to like him. John was one of the very few popular kids who didn't look down on others even though he could have had any girl--or guy for that matter--he chose. And although Greg was too embarrassed to admit it out loud, John felt like the little brother he never had, and maybe that's why he couldn't help but be worried about the boy.

Lately, Greg had noticed a change in John, even though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Ever since the summer holidays had started, the boy had become quieter, more distant, and anytime Greg happened to mention John's family or ask something about his parents, he became evasive and changed the subject. John was spending more and more time alone, always turning down invitations to parties and always making excuses for having to leave early. He didn't seem like his old self who had always been surrounded by friends.

Suddenly, an idea sprang to mind. He had, in one hand, an erratic, self-destructive, manic Sherlock, and in the other a subdued but intelligent and empathetic John. What if he were to mix things up a little? Sherlock could surely use someone like John to keep him from self-destructing, and John needed... well, Greg wasn't entirely sure _what_ he needed, but he was certain there was something missing.

He worried for both Sherlock and John, and had tried to think of ways to help them, but it had seemed like there was nothing he could do to save the two boys from themselves. But maybe he had been wrong, maybe there was something he could do. Maybe instead of giving Sherlock what he wanted and putting his own job and career in danger, he could "accidentally" mix up the victim's phone number with John's, and thus avoid any prison time and possibly even bring two people together, two people in need of a friend.

Greg wasn't the type to play matchmaker, but something told him that Sherlock and John had the potential to become good friends, and if he was right, they would hopefully help to balance each other out.

He didn't need to convince himself further, because he had already made the decision. He opened John's contact information and copied the phone number. He pasted it into the text conversation he had with Sherlock, which pretty much involved Sherlock calling him stupid, and pressed send.

Putting his phone back into his pocket, Greg took a swig of his coffee, which had already gone cold, and couldn't stop the smug smile from forming on his lips. Perhaps he wasn't as stupid as Sherlock thought he was after all.

 

~~*~~

 

Sherlock had known that Lestrade would eventually give in and give him the victim's phone number, but he had to admit that he was still surprised when his phone buzzed with a new text message only five minutes after his call. The man had reached a new level of desperation, Sherlock thought, pleased with himself for once again getting his way, as he opened a new text message and started typing.

(09:37) In order to catch the offender, I need to ask you a few questions. Meet me at Charing Cross Station in thirty minutes. SH

(09:57) Offender? Sorry, who is this?

(09:58) Yes, your offender. I know it's a common coping mechanism to suppress traumatic memories, but it's hardly been a week since you reported the crime, and this is extremely important. SH

(09:58) My name is Sherlock Holmes and I work for Scotland Yard. I expect to meet you in less than ten minutes. SH

(10:11) Crime??? I haven't reported any crime, not that I know of anyway. And the Yard?? Are you like a police officer?

(10:13) Is this some kind of joke? I got your number from a reliable source, you reported a crime last Wednesday at thirteen past eight in the evening. SH

(10:20) It can't have been that reliable, I really have no idea what you're talking about mate

(10:21) My source must have made a mistake then. Regrettable, but not quite surprising. I apologise for any inconvenience. SH

Thrumming the fingers of his left hand impatiently against his thigh, Sherlock opened his text conversation with Greg, scolding himself for not having double-checked the number. He should have known that even such a simple task was beyond Greg's capabilities.

(10:22) You gave me a wrong number. SH

(10:30) Must have gotten the information wrong. Greg

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Greg's text, not even bothering to reply. "Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself with annoyance.

(10:32) That's... okay? I don't even know what's going on. What was the crime? I'm intrigued

(10:37) Just an armed burglary, nothing fancy. SH

Just as he pressed the send button, he realised, a fraction of a second too late, that he was texting a complete stranger.

(10:44) Sounds pretty fancy to me

(10:46) Hang on, did you say your name was Sherlock Holmes? It sounds vaguely familiar

(10:50) I did. But it's highly unlikely you know me. Unless you, too, work for Scotland Yard, that is. SH

(10:53) I don't. But wait, do you take chemistry at West Bank Academy?

(10:57) Dark hair, tall, always correcting the professor?

(10:59) Oh, I didn't know anyone at school knew my name. Who are you? SH

(11:01) Oh, I'm no one, just thought your name was familiar

John had been momentarily stunned when Sherlock had mentioned his name. John knew _very well_ who Sherlock was. They didn't have many classes together, only chemistry and physics, but he had caught John's eye from the moment he had transferred into West Bank. He had spent many hours staring into the back of those long curls, looking only for short moments at a time, not risking being discovered. He always sat in the back and didn't say much anyway. John presumed Sherlock thought he was an idiot, like the rest of the class, and it would be too complicated to give away his identity. This way, maybe he could get to know Sherlock a little better, and he never would be found out. This was safe.

(11:03) Oh please, the class is full of jocks and popular kids, and judging by the way you text, you're more likely to be one of them than one of the so-called losers. SH

(11:07) Believe what you want :)

John could never tell Sherlock who he was. He was fairly popular, yes, but all his friends were superficial and served only to distract him from his thoughts. He tried to get along and get in as little trouble as possible. The only actual friend he had made was Mary Morstan, a blonde girl who had no sense of personal boundaries. Mike Stamford and Greg were his friends too, but he couldn't see them very often and he definitely couldn't talk to them about anything personal. There was no way Sherlock was going to respond to him if he knew who he was talking to...

(11:10) I can't believe you actually made Susan cry. Though I also think she had it coming

Sherlock was aware that he was now choosing to text a stranger instead of working on the case he had been trying to solve for the past few days, and he very well knew that replying to the messages would not benefit him in any way. But he was bored, unbearably bored, and the fact that someone in his chemistry class had noticed him piqued his curiosity. He usually kept to himself, and most people left him alone, apart from a few guys at school who called him names and deliberately pushed into him in the corridors, so he couldn't help but be surprised to find out that someone other than one of his bullies had been paying attention to what he was doing. Supposing there was no harm in continuing their text conversation a little longer, Sherlock typed a new message and pressed send.

(11:15) It's not my fault she's cheating on her boyfriend. That poor guy deserved to know the truth. SH

(11:19) Yes, but in the middle of CLASS? It was hysterical

(11:21) How did you know that anyway? Friend of yours?

(11:20) Oh, I think it was very appropriate, considering all three of them, Susan, her boyfriend and the one she cheated with, were present. SH

(11:22) No, not a friend. I didn't know, I just observed. SH

(11:25) Observed? What, you just looked at her and knew? Also will add mental note, Susan is not a friend of yours :)

(11:30) Susan uses a very distinctive perfume, so it doesn't take a genius to figure out what's going on when suddenly Mark starts smelling like her. SH

(11:31) Is she a friend of yours? SH

(11:34) Definitely not, she is too loud and obnoxious

(11:35) I don't disagree. SH

John knew he shouldn't push this too far, but his heart was beating wildly in his chest whenever his phone vibrated. It was dangerous territory he was on; there was a reason his acquaintances were mostly female. His dad. John shuddered, but pushed the thoughts away. This was anonymous. Sherlock would never find out who he was, and he therefore couldn't rat him out.

(11:38) So, who DO you like around school?

(11:45) No one really. As you might have noticed, people don't really like me. Besides, I don't mind being alone. SH

_Oh, to hell with everything and everyone._

(11:46) I like you

Sherlock could have sworn his heart stopped beating for a moment. Blankly, he stared at his phone screen, reading the three words over and over again, as if to make sure that his eyes weren't lying to him. No one had ever told him that they liked him. He was rude and obnoxious, certainly not the type of person people liked.

Sherlock could only think of two possibilities, both of which made his heart sink. The stranger either must have mixed him up with someone else or it had to be some kind of sick joke. People just didn't like him. Hell, they barely tolerated him.

(11:55) You have to be joking. SH

(12:00) Nope! I mean, you can be rude but as far as I'm concerned, the recipients have all deserved it. I like you :)

(12:12) Thank you? I'm flattered. SH

(12:14) Have we ever talked? SH

(12:16) I can't give away that level of detail, I'm sorry, and you don't have to thank me

(12:18) And why is that? I promise to keep my mouth shut if you're worried that your friends will find out that you've been texting someone like me. SH

(12:20) No, Sherlock, Christ, no. That's not it at all. But I really, really can't tell you. I'm sorry. You can call me H, though

Reading over Sherlock's text again, John felt panic rising within his chest, constricting his airways and laying like a rock in his lungs. This was such a terrible idea. He was confused regarding how someone could have mistaken his number for someone else at the Yard, and it was a one-in-a-million chance that Sherlock had texted him in the first place, but there was no way this was going to end well for either of them. He couldn't be friends with Sherlock Holmes. His dad would kill him.

(12:40) Maybe this was a bad idea. I've no idea how the Yard got this number anyway

(12:46) Oh. I'll understand if you prefer to stop texting me. It was nice, though, H. SH


	2. Chapter 2

_ Three days later. _

 

(03:21) Are you awake? H

Sherlock was lounging on the steps of their front porch, smoking a cigarette, when his phone  vibrated in his back pocket. Startled, he fished the phone out of his pocket, assuming Greg was working late and in need of his assistance. It wasn't unusual for Greg to text him late at night; the man knew that Sherlock always stayed up late and wanted to be kept up to date in case any new evidence was discovered or any progress regarding a case was made. But he was wrong, it wasn't Greg this time. The message was from H.

Sherlock had already given up hope of ever hearing from the mysterious H again, and felt his heart rate speed up a little when he saw that the text was from him. 

Hastily, he stubbed out his cigarette, not thinking twice before typing a reply.

(03:22) Yes. Is everything all right? SH

Mortified, Sherlock tried to ignore his racing heart and the heat creeping into his cheeks, trying to convince himself that his body's reaction was just a normal response to a sudden, unexpected sound of a text message, and had nothing to do with the fact that someone who might actually like him had contacted him. It was unlike him to react that way to a simple text message, and just thinking about what his older brother would say if he saw Sherlock now made his cheeks redden even more.

(03:27) Hey, Sherlock, I'm sorry, everything is really complicated, and I really shouldn't be talking to you... I might be a little drunk? You have every right to just block my number. H

(03:28) Where are you? Are you okay? You can talk to me, I don't mind. SH

(03:31) I'm at home, tried to sneak in. What are you doing? H

(03:33) Sneak in? Why? Where have you been? Nothing, just couldn't sleep. SH

(03:34) Always do. I was on campus, there was some party in someone's dorm. H

(03:35) When we start again in 6 weeks will you know who I am? H

(03:42) Oh, so you are one of the popular ones. One of those who get invited to parties. SH

(03:43) I could always guess, but I can't be certain, unless you tell me yourself. SH

(03:44) I get invited, it's true. H

(03:45) Please don't guess. H

(03:47) Why? You don't seem like the type who worries about what someone like me thinks of you. SH

(03:48) You have no idea. H

(03:49) Then help me understand. SH

(03:50) It's too risky. H

(03:56) I won't tell anyone. I mean, I don't even have anyone to tell. You can trust me. SH

(03:59) I don't know, Sherlock. I never thought I would actually be interacting with you, just observe from a distance. H

(04:03) You've been observing me? SH

_ Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. _ John was starting to panic. He should never have opened his phone knowing damn well how drunk he was. This was bad. 

(04:04) Yes. I mean, just looking, nothing weird about it. Listening to rants in class. That thing. Definitely nothing gay or anything. H

Fuck. Had he just revealed he had been  _ watching _ ? This was just not good. John threw his phone onto his bed and hid his face in his hands. His dad was actually going to kill him if he ever found out he as much as  _ looked _ at another man.

Sherlock felt a warm fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Knowing that someone had been watching him and listening to him made a tickle of excitement grow inside him, a new feeling to him that almost felt dangerous in some inexplicable way. He wasn't used to positive attention.

(04:11) And what do you think about me, based on your observations? SH

_ Oh god. _ John swallowed harshly. He was headed straight for disaster.

(04:12) You're tall. And mysterious. H

(04:15) You're highly intelligent, pretty rude and you don't understand social norms. H

(04:19) That is quite accurate although I wouldn't call myself mysterious. SH

(04:30) You look sad when you think no one can see you. H

Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment. He knew that he could always deny it, say that H didn't know him, that he was wrong and had no right to make such assumptions, but deep inside he knew that there was truth to his words.

Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keys as he tried to think of a reply. His heart thudding against his ribs, he slowly started typing, painfully aware that no one else had ever made him feel so vulnerable, so naked.

(04:38) I don't know what to say. SH

(04:39) It's okay. If I crossed a line and weirded you out I'm sorry. H

(04:42) No need to apologise. It's just that I'm not used to being... seen. SH

Suddenly, a thought hit him, and he felt his throat constrict in panic and something uncomfortable lurch in his stomach. What if H was making fun of him? Perhaps this was some kind of sick joke, one of his bullies taking a piss out of him. If he wasn't careful, soon the whole school would know what a pathetic loner he was. He could hear his brother's voice in his head, saying how he should know better, mocking him for being so foolish. Taking a shaky breath, Sherlock reminded himself that alone was what he had. Alone protected him.

(04:43) Really? I would have thought people would stand in line to get to know you. H

(04:45) People generally leave me alone, and I'm fine with it. I'm fine being alone. I don't need anyone. SH

(04:46) Why are you texting me anyway? It's not like you don't have any friends. SH

It stung a little, John had to admit that. He couldn't tell Sherlock the real reason he was still texting him though. It had been a coincidence that Sherlock had texted him in the first place, but John felt like he knew him, at least a part of him, although he had only observed him at school and interacted briefly with him over the past week. He  _ really _ couldn't tell Sherlock that he had been so close to ending it all when his mobile phone had vibrated in his pocket just a few days earlier.

(04:48) I don't know. Does it bother you? H

(04:49) It just strikes me as odd. SH

(04:51) I can stop. H

The thought of never talking to H again made Sherlock's chest feel tight, but at the same time he was afraid he would get hurt if he let his guard down. Sherlock had never let anyone get close, and the idea of trusting another person and letting them into his life frightened him beyond measure. He had learned early on that sentiment was a chemical defect and that other people were not to be trusted. But what if he was wrong? What if H was different? There was a tiny part of him that wanted to believe that H was worth taking a risk for.

(04:55) Don't. SH

With trembling fingers, Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose, and pressed send.

John smiled a little, propping his head up against the headboard of his bed. He clutched his phone to his chest and let out a shaky breath. This was extremely selfish, extremely self-destructive, but he couldn't help himself. He had watched Sherlock for a year, never once gathering the courage to talk to him; he couldn't talk to him. The only reason he was allowed to talk to Mike and Greg was that they were already in relationships, and has no way of "damaging" John, as his father so sweetly put it. When Harry had come out as gay and ran away, his father hadn't taken it well. He was used to it now, making excuses and feigning sickness in the aftermath of his father's rage. Bruises, cuts, sometimes even fractures. Gingerly, John rubbed the side of his neck which still hurt and was little purple from a few days ago. If he was going to keep Sherlock, even only secretly in his phone, he was going to have to be extremely careful. 

He sighed.

(05:00) Okay. I won't. H

 

~~ * ~~

 

A loud buzzing penetrated Sherlock's consciousness, and it took a moment for his sleep-filled mind to clear enough to register that the buzzing sound was his phone. Groaning, he forced his eyes open, blinking in the bright light of the morning sun as he reached for his phone on the nightstand, his tired brain struggling to control his fumbling fingers. Sherlock let out another frustrated groan when his eyes caught his alarm clock--it was nine in the morning, and he had barely been asleep for three hours.

Finally, he felt the vibrating surface of his phone under his fingertips, and grabbed it. A quick glance at the phone screen made his annoyance skyrocket. Cursing under his breath, Sherlock pressed the button to answer the call.

"Fuck you, Mycroft."

"Good morning to you too, brother dear. Say, how has your little--shall we say 'distraction'--been going?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock spat out with as much venom as he could muster.

"Oh, please. Don't play stupid, Sherlock. It is unbecoming of you," Mycroft scoffed.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, and even if I did, it's not your damn business."

"We both know that what you do is very much my business," Mycroft said calmly and continued casually. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

"Oh, please. Then why do you care so much?"

Mycroft seemed momentarily stunned, but quickly recovered. "You think this is caring?" he scoffed with disdain. "This is minimising any inconvenience you may cause, should you spiral out of control again. You know what happened last time."

The words stung him, and he faltered for a second before replying, "I'm not a child, Mycroft. I can take care of myself." Sherlock hated the betraying strain in his voice, knowing very well that nothing escaped his brother's notice.

"Whatever you say, brother mine. Just remember that I warned you."

"Just leave me alone and go enjoy that breakfast buffet which I'm sure you're already salivating over."

Mycroft chuckled humourlessly.

"I'll be in touch," he said, and the line disconnected.

 

~~ * ~~

 

John awoke from harsh pounding on his bedroom door. His head was throbbing and the room was spinning, but he didn't have time to think about that at the moment, because two seconds later his father entered the bedroom, and he was furious.

"How  _ dare _ you sneak in on me?" he shouted, and John could smell the alcohol on his breath from all the way over the bed. 

"I don't know wh--"

"Cut the crap," his father roared as he marched over to the bed and grabbed John by his t-shirt, forcibly dragging him out of bed and pushing him into the nearest bedroom wall.

"Where were you, huh?!" his father shouted and John flinched involuntarily.

"Answer me, god damn it!" his father demanded and slapped him across the face with his open hand. His cheek stung as his head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud.

"N-nowhere," John started and tried to wiggle free out of his father's grasp, but he held on tight.

"Don't fucking lie to me! Were you out with men, you poofter?" 

The first punch hit John square across his chin, and he lifted his arms defensively to protect himself. 

"No, dad, I-"

"You know I will not tolerate having a faggot son," he spat and punched John again in the stomach, hard enough for John to double over and for his vision to become blurry with tears.

"Sorry, dad," was all he could muster. He hadn't even been out with any guys, but he knew better than to aggravate his dad further.

He slammed John into the wall again one last time, leaving one last good punch to his side, and John swore he heard something crack disturbingly. He hunched over and fell onto his knees, his arms clutching his sides, little droplets of blood running from his cheek onto the floor. Without looking back, his dad stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him. 

As he heard the receding footsteps of his dad in the staircase, he slumped together on the floor and let his tears fall free.


	3. Chapter 3

(09:57) My brother is an insufferable bastard. SH

Sherlock spent the whole day unable to focus on anything, pacing around the house, and smoking way too many cigarettes on the front porch. He kept checking his phone every three minutes, and jumping, startled, whenever it buzzed with a text.

But none of the messages had been from H, and minute by minute, Sherlock's anxiety grew, making him jittery and light-headed, his restlessness accentuated by the high level of nicotine in his bloodstream.

At six in the evening, the thoughts Sherlock had been trying to push away all day were threatening to invade the forefront of his mind. It had been eight hours, two minutes and 15 seconds since he had sent the text, and there was still no answer. He could not help but start wondering if he had said something wrong, or if something terrible had happened to H. Or perhaps H had just lost interest in him? It wouldn't be all that surprising, Sherlock thought bitterly, he was an antisocial freak after all, not someone who could hold some popular guy's interest for long. The lump in his throat seemed to grow in size, and he had to concentrate on his breathing in order to keep it in check.

When there still had been no response two hours later, Sherlock supposed he had nothing to lose and decided to send one more message.

(20:06) Is everything all right? SH

After five minutes of staring at the numbers slowly changing on his phone screen, Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and told himself he was being ridiculous. Tossing his phone on his bed, he got up and made his way to the living room. In an attempt to distract himself from his anxiety-ridden thoughts, he started scanning the room, looking for anything suspicious, searching through every bookcase and cabinet, lifting every decorative vase and checking underneath. He was certain that Mycroft had hidden a camera or a microphone somewhere in the house before he and their parents had left for a celebratory trip to Monaco after Mycroft’s graduation. His older brother was always keeping an eye on him, constantly tracing his every move, putting his fat nose where it did not belong. And he always managed to find out about what Sherlock had been up to in some way or another. He seemed to already know about H, and Sherlock knew that it was only a matter of time before Mycroft found a way to take H away from him.

As his search proved fruitless, Sherlock groaned in frustration and slumped down on the sofa, swinging his legs up on the coffee table. Tapping his fingers on the armrest, he let himself relax against the cushions. After a short while, a familiar crawling sensation under his skin began to seep into his consciousness, and his mind wandered back to his phone conversation with Mycroft that morning. He knew what his brother had meant by “last time” and although he had tried to remain indifferent, he couldn’t escape the fact that Mycroft’s words had stirred shame in him. But his brother was wrong about one thing. He would never “spiral out of control” again. He knew his limits and he was in control of his actions. This he knew he could prove to himself.

The longer Sherlock sat on the sofa, the more tempting the idea seemed to him. All he needed to do was make one phone call to prove his brother wrong, one call to escape his racing thoughts and the crawling sensation under his skin for a moment. But he couldn't ignore the little voice telling him that it would be extremely foolish of him, that perhaps he didn't have as much control as he thought. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock closed his eyes and decided to resist the temptation a little longer.

 

~~ * ~~

 

Everything hurt. It took John tremendous effort to get up off the floor and crash on his bed. He opened the drawer on his night stand and grabbed a bottle of pills, fishing one pill out and swallowing it down with some water. He then curled up on his side, clutching his chest, and waited for the sleeping medication to kick in.

He awoke much later that night with two texts, and he wasn't sure how to respond to them. In the end, he settled with not actually answering the messages, determined to act like nothing had happened. 

(03:21) Hey. H

 

~~ * ~~

 

When Sherlock awoke, it was dark. Disoriented, he blinked his eyes to make sense of his surroundings, realising he must have dozed off while resting on the sofa.

Remembering H, Sherlock fumbled for his phone only to realise that he had left it in his room. As he forced himself to get up, he felt a dull pain in the back of his neck from sleeping in the awkward position on the sofa, and his whole body felt heavy as lead as he stumbled to his room.

Back in his room, he was greeted by a blinking light on his phone.

 

(04:19) Where have you been? SH

(04:20) Nowhere. What are you doing? H

(04:24) Oh. I texted you earlier. Nothing really, I just woke up. What about you? SH

(04:25) Sorry about that. Same, in bed. :) H

(04:27) No, it's okay. I bet you've been busy doing whatever it is you popular guys do. SH

(04:29) If only that were true. H

(04:29) Care to elaborate? SH

(04:30) I don't know, Sherlock. It's not something I ever talk about. H

(04:33) I've read in a book, which I consider reliable, that talking about your feelings and problems can help you to get clarity and maybe even feel better. SH

(04:34) Are you serious? H

John couldn't help but let out a surprised laugh but regretted it immediately when his ribs protested.

(04:35) Of course. What makes you think I'm not? I can check the title of the book for you, if you like. SH

John couldn't help but let out another painful laugh.

(04:36) Okay, you're serious, wow. H

Sherlock could feel the heat of embarrassment spread across his cheeks, aware that he had said something that normal people considered strange.

(04:38) Did I say something wrong? SH

Oh, shit. Sherlock had gotten the wrong idea.

(04:40) Not at all! I just don't really talk about feelings, I kinda got from that that you don't either. Never had anyone say it so bluntly, made me laugh. H

(04:42) Oh, I see. I wouldn't mind if you did, though. SH

(04:43) Thanks, Sherlock. You too. H

 

It took John nearly an hour to gather the courage to write something more to Sherlock. He had never felt even remotely close to another person, and although he had kept his eyes on Sherlock, he didn't actually know him. All he knew now was that he wanted to, more than anything, to get to know the person underneath the cold facade he put up at school. He also knew that it would cost him dearly.

 

(05:35) Do you know how to bandage a fractured rib? H

(06:12) I do. It's essential to bandage the ribs tightly to immobilize the area. Minimizing the amount of movement will help to reduce pain. But it is also important to remove the bandage as often as possible to allow the patient to breathe deeply. Restricted breathing increases the risk for lung infections. SH

(06:15) Wait, why are you asking me this? SH

(06:16) H, you should know that I'm by no means a medical professional. If you're injured, you should seek medical help immediately. SH

(06:17) I'm fine. H

(06:18) No, if you are injured, you are not fine. SH

(06:20) I'll be okay, thanks for the tip. H

(06:23) Just let me know if there's anything I can do. SH

(06:25) Thank you, Sherlock. I'm sorry I'm so vague, I wish I could explain everything to you. H

(06:48) I understand that there's something you're afraid of, and don't get me wrong, I'm not saying you shouldn't be. I don't know nearly enough about your situation to make any such claims, I can merely assume. All I'm saying is that you could talk to me if you wanted, and I might be able to help. SH

Something warm fluttered in the pit of John's stomach while reading Sherlock's words. He couldn't for the life of him understand what people meant when they called Sherlock cold and unfeeling, he had heard the rumours, but Sherlock hadn't done anything to prove them right. John thought long and hard before sending Sherlock a reply, feeling that he owed him  _ some  _ information about himself despite the risks. 

 

(06:58) Okay. You can ask me a question. Not what I look like, my name, where I live or anything that can reveal my identity. H

(06:58) One question. H

Sherlock knew immediately what he wanted to ask. What he  _ needed  _ to ask.

 

(07:03) What is it that you're afraid of? SH

(07:05) Can you be more specific? H

(07:05) I am sure you know exactly what I mean. SH

Sherlock was right, John  _ did _ know what he meant. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in his stomach, his anxiety spiking harshly. Trying to get his breathing under control, he started writing on his mobile, praying that Sherlock wouldn't push him away. Because, if he did, he had  _ nothing. _

 

(08:34) I'm afraid of my father. H

 

He had never written it before, or admitted it to himself. He didn't keep a diary because it was too risky. His dad could find it. So he carefully stored his feelings away in his heart, never letting himself be vulnerable in front of another human being. And it wasn't just that he was afraid of his father; he was also afraid of  _ himself _ . He feared there was something seriously wrong with him. It hadn't taken him very long to figure out he was gay in his younger years, but he had hidden it away, sworn to himself that he would never fall for that kind of temptation. It was wrong, he knew being gay was wrong, his father had told him as much. Had beaten it into the very core of his being.

John closed his eyes, trying to regain his composure.

 

Even though the thought had crossed Sherlock's mind, he couldn't help but feel something tighten in his chest when he read the message. The fact that H had to be afraid of someone who should be there to protect him, to make him feel safe and loved, made him angry. He didn't even know the man and he already hated him with every fibre of his being.

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm the anger boiling inside him, reminding himself that what he said next was crucial. The last thing he wanted to do was to push H away, to make him think that Sherlock didn't care or that he couldn't trust him.

 

(08:38) Is your father violent towards you? SH

(08:39) One question. H

(08:43) I just want you to know that it is not your fault. Please, take care of yourself. SH

John shook his head to his phone sadly.  _ If only _ Sherlock was right. But everything  _ was _ his fault. If he could just be like everyone else...

 

(08:44) Thanks, I am. H

 

Sherlock hated violence. He had had more than his fair share at school and he knew how small and worthless it made one feel, how much shame it stirred inside oneself. Knowing that H had to go through something similar and endure that kind of pain and suffering day in and day out, made him feel sick.

He hated that there was nothing he could do. Sherlock didn't even know who H was, and even if he did, he wasn't sure if he could help. If he hadn't been able to stop a few bullies from hurting him, how could he put an end to a grown man who was torturing his son?

(08:52) If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. SH

(09:03) Also, if it makes you feel any less alone, I know how it feels to be afraid of someone. I am sure my problems are petty compared to yours, but I thought you should know that I understand. SH

Sherlock's heart was beating violently, threatening to burst through his chest. He was afraid that he had made a mistake in trusting H, in telling him something that he had struggled to admit, even to himself. Although he wanted everyone to believe that he was strong and didn't care about the bullying, that he could take care of himself and that he most certainly could take a beating, the truth was that he was scared. Scared of going to school, scared of walking along the school corridors alone, of bumping into one of the bullies and not being able to run fast enough to escape them.

Hoping H wouldn't make fun of him, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to ignore the erratic thumping of his heart. While he waited for a reply, he tried not to think about the fact that H knew who he was and that he could easily tell everyone what a weak and pathetic loser Sherlock was.

 

The message startled John out of his thoughts, and he eagerly opened his phone. Upon reading Sherlock's text, something heavy settled in the core of his being.  _ Sherlock was afraid. _ Instantly, anger flared in his chest and he widened his nostrils as he squeezed his thumb and index finger together at the bridge of his nose. 

This was totally unacceptable. He had known Sherlock for less than two weeks, known  _ about _ him for a few months, and he was already becoming ridiculously protective. Which was silly, John knew, because Sherlock didn't even know who he was. 

He wasn't used to feeling this protective and aggravated

With clenched teeth he responded.

(09:04) I need names. H

(09:11) Just a few guys at school. It's nothing. SH

(09:12) I'm serious, Sherlock. I need names. H

(09:14) It's nothing, really. I shouldn't even have mentioned it. SH

Without realising, John let out a frustrated growl.

 

(09:15) Fine. I will find out myself. H

 

Sherlock felt his cheeks warming up and something bubbling up in his chest, a warm feeling that he couldn't quite explain. H seemed so brave and protective, and Sherlock had a hard time understanding why someone would care about him or want to protect him.

 

(09:17) Why do you care? SH

(09:18) Why  _ don't _ you? H

(09:21) I've realised that it doesn't really make any difference whether or not I do so I might as well just try to ignore them and move on. SH

(09:25) I can't make you do anything. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me. H

(09:30) I mean that metaphorically. H

(09:35) I've seen how you try to cover your bruises, Sherlock. If I see any more on you when we are back from the holidays, I will find whoever is responsible. H

(09:42) I don't know what to say, H. It's just that I'm not used to having someone care about me. SH

(09:45) But I appreciate it. Thank you. SH


	4. Chapter 4

_ Two days later. _

 

The fracture on John's rib was beginning to heal. It was still painful and bruised, but John made sure to do everything he could to stay in his father's good graces.

He cleaned the house, bought groceries, took out trash and his dad's empty beer and whiskey bottles, and he made sure not to speak unless directly spoken to. He was tip toeing on eggshells and he hated it. He just didn't think he could stand another punch right now, neither verbal nor physical. 

It was an early evening and John had just finished his daily tasks around the house when he heard the front door fling open and his dad stumbling inside. He didn't need to see him to know he was very drunk. He made himself as small as possible, sneaking out of the kitchen and darted upstairs into his bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

He could feel anxiety behind his eyelids, and his whole body was tensing up. This was going to be a long night.

Suddenly he remembered something Sherlock had texted him yesterday, something about a brother.

(22:10) Wait, you have a brother? H

(22:29) Unfortunately, yes. An older brother. SH

(22:30) Never would have guessed. What's he like? H

(22:32) He is the most annoying, insufferable, overbearing bastard I know. SH

(22:34) What did he do? H

(22:37) What  _ didn't  _ he do? He thinks he has the right to decide what's best for me, so he tries to control everything I do. To put it briefly, he makes my life living hell. SH

(22:38) I'm sorry he is giving you such a hard time. We're pretty miserable, huh? H

(22:40) I guess we have that in common. Do you have any siblings? SH

(22:41) Older, much drunker sister. H

(22:50) Oh. I'm sorry. SH

(22:53) Do you drink a lot? SH

(22:54) Not that I'm judging. We all have our vices. SH

(22:56) I wish I could say no. H

At that moment, John's father forcefully pushed the door open, and John quickly threw his phone onto his bed, thankful for password protection. He was sitting by his desk pretending to read a book. He felt a hand firmly grab his shoulder and spin him around. 

His father's eyes were red and his breath smelled of alcohol, but he remained motionless for a while, regarding John with glazed eyes. Seconds later, he seemed to have forgotten what he was doing in John's bedroom and he walked off without a word, slamming the door behind him. John released a breath that he hadn't even known he was holding, and rubbed his shoulder with shaking hands.

He walked back to his bed and picked up his phone, suddenly desperate for a distraction. Adrenaline still surging in his bloodstream, he wasn’t entirely aware of what he was typing until he had pressed send.

 

(22:59) Do you have a girlfriend? H

(23:12) No, not really my area. Do you? SH

John was sure he was going to faint, his cheeks an alarming shade of pink. Despite his dad’s demeaning voice in his head screaming that homosexuality was a sin, he felt the overwhelming urge to ask. 

 

(23:16) Oh, boyfriend? H

(23:17) Which is fine, by the way. H

(23:19) I know it's fine. But I'm single. If you really have been observing me like you say you have, you should have noticed that I'm always alone. SH

(23:20) What about you? Do you have a partner? SH

(23:21) No. H

(23:24) Oh, really? Why? SH

John hesitated, wasn't sure how much he could reveal to Sherlock.

 

(23:25) No one has caught my interest. H

 

He settled for safe and vague.

(23:30) Ah. What are you looking for in a partner, then? SH

(23:31) Oh, you know, the standard. Intelligent, kind, that kind of thing. H

(23:32) Sounds reasonable. SH

John was grinning to himself like a maniac. Since Sherlock had said he was single, he hadn't been able to control the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach, and he felt his cheeks reddening. If he didn't know better he would suspect he was crushing on Sherlock, but there was no way he would allow himself that to happen. It would be a train wreck waiting to happen and they had only spoken for a few days. He tried to push the tingling sensation away and think about just how  _ dead _ he would be if his dad found out he was messaging another boy. 

 

(23:34) What about you? H

(23:45) I honestly don't know. I haven't really thought about it. I guess relationships just aren't my thing. SH

(22:47) Why? H

(23:55) I'm not the type of person people like, let alone fall for. And I'm fine with that. SH

(23:57) I disagree. H

 

_ Fuck. _ What was he doing? Before he could hit send he deleted what he had typed. He started again.

 

(00:01) I'm sorry you feel that way. H

(00:02) Oh, it's quite all right. SH

Downstairs, John could hear his father rummaging through the cabinets for another bottle of whiskey. John sighed. He desperately needed a distraction, needed to get away from the house for a while. 

Putting his phone in his pocket, he silently opened his window and climbed out, careful not to make too much noise. He lowered himself down, his legs dangling over the ledge, grabbing the edge firmly with his hands. His legs swung freely underneath him and he closed his eyes, feeling the surge of adrenaline before letting go, landing softly on the grass below. He held in a moan of pain emanating from his chest, biting down on his hand to prevent any sounds from leaving his mouth. After having recovered, he crept out of the garden, making sure to stay out of sight of any windows.

When he was out in the street he fished up a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it, taking a deep drag. He put the lighter back into his pocket and fished his phone out.

(00:13) What are you doing? H

 

Sherlock kept scrolling through his text conversation with H, reading the same messages over and over again. He didn't really know why, but he had felt a bit disappointed when H had told about his preferences for a romantic partner. Sure, Sherlock was intelligent, but he definitely was not kind. Not that it mattered, since he wasn't looking for a partner, and H probably wasn't gay--and even if he was, Sherlock reminded himself, H would never want someone like him--but it still stung a bit to know that he wasn't H's type.

After a while, Sherlock stopped flicking through the messages, telling himself that he needed to pull himself together. He had never before cared what other people thought of him, so the fact that he now was worrying about whether or not a stranger liked him made him uneasy. He didn't dare consider the possibility that he was interested in some guy he had never met, a guy he hardly knew anything about.

Just as he was about to open their text conversation again, his phone buzzed with a new message from H.

 

(00:14) Oh, nothing. What about you? SH

(00:15) Taking a stroll. H

(00:16)   H [Mobile user? Click here to see picture.](https://i.imgur.com/o56waiN.jpg)

(00:17) Isn't it a bit late for one? I think I recognise that place, though. Is it close to where you live? SH

(00:18) I had to get out. And yeah, it's pretty close by. If I ever see you here, though, I will never leave my house again. H

(00:20) Did something happen? And why is that? I doubt it's a good enough reason to stay inside four walls forever. SH

(00:21) You can't know who I am. And no, but I am probably screwed when I go back. H

(00:23) Please, be careful. SH

(00:23) I still don't understand why you want to keep your identity secret. SH

John pulled at his hair with his hands and considered just caving and telling him the truth. That he was terrified.

 

(00:27) If I tell you, you have to swear that you will never tell anybody. H

(00:28) I swear, your secret is safe with me. And as I've already said, I don't have anyone to tell. SH

John's hands started to shake, and he felt tears pooling in his eyes, threatening to overflow onto his cheeks. 

He had never told anyone about his father, and that he was gay nobody knew. He always pretended he was straight to get his father off him, but he still received beatings on a regular basis, despite his best efforts. He was so afraid that if Sherlock knew, he wouldn't think of him the same way anymore. He would shut him off, and John would never be able to talk to him again because he couldn't risk being identified. 

He felt an oncoming panic attack as he desperately gasped for air. He slumped down against the metal railing and let it support his weight, cars driving past quickly on the road beneath the bridge.

 

(00:45) I'm gay. My father is extremely homophobic. He gets drunk and violent... H

 

John was sobbing in earnest now, and he was more afraid than he had ever been before. Sherlock now had the power to destroy him. John just hoped he wouldn't.

(00:47) H, I'm so sorry. It's not your fault that your father is abusive. Listen, you need to tell the police. You're in serious danger. SH

(00:48) I can't. H

(00:50) Why? I understand that you're scared, but you really need help. SH

(00:51) Don't you get it??? It IS my fault. If I was normal everything would be fine. H

(00:53) Normal? What are you talking about? There's nothing wrong with being gay. You yourself said that it's fine. It is your father who is not normal. He's abusive, and that is a crime. SH

John had a really hard time breathing. He was biting into his fists hard in an effort to stifle his sobs, feeling utterly pathetic.

 

(00:54) I can't, Sherlock, I just can't. H

(00:55) I can't make you do anything, but I hope you change your mind. Your father should be in prison. SH

(01:00) Thanks, Sherlock. H

Desperately wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, he got himself up off the ground and started walking back home. He managed to climb back up the water drain pipe up to his bedroom. Closing the window carefully, he toed off his shoes, put them under the bed and collapsed onto his sheets, hiding his face in his pillow.  _ He couldn't believe what he had just done. _


	5. Chapter 5

By midday, Sherlock had already taken his daily notes on his on-going experiments, sneaked into his brother's room and emptied his poorly hidden candy stash in one of his desk drawers into the trash, smoked a quarter pack of cigarettes, and even managed to get a decent few hours of sleep.

After nibbling on some cold leftover takeaway from the fridge, he had texted Greg, desperate to find something to occupy his mind, but the man had not had a single interesting case, and despite his several attempts to persuade Sherlock to believe that the case of some ancient grandmother's lost silver pendant was "intriguing", Sherlock had not been convinced. He was simply too intelligent to waste his time on something as trivial as an old woman who was far too demented to remember where she had put her jewellery. 

Sherlock felt restlessness growing inside him as he feverishly tried to come up with something to do, something that wouldn't make him die from boredom. Going through his desk, looking for something to pique his interest, Sherlock caught sight of his lecture notes, suddenly remembering that he had been granted permission to use the school's chemistry laboratory during the summer holiday due to his "enthusiasm for and interest in chemistry" and his "outstanding knowledge" as his high school chemistry teacher had put it.

He didn't have to think twice before he had packed his backpack and was on his way to the school.

(12:32) I'm heading over to school. Thought I should warn you, in case you don't want to bump into me, that is. SH

(12:35) Thanks, Sherlock. But what are you going to school for? You do know we are on summer vacation, right? H

(12:36) Of course, I'm not an idiot. I have permission to use the lab. SH

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's remark. As if he would  _ ever _ consider Sherlock being an idiot. 

(12:37) You're ridiculous. How did you get permission, anyway? H

(12:39) Mr. Johnson was impressed by my work, that's all. SH

(12:40) Your work? Like, experiments? H

Sherlock usually liked taking pride in his achievements but discussing his work with H, made him suddenly feel self-conscious and awkward.

(12:40) Yes, a few experiments that I'm still working on. Nothing special. SH

(12:42) Considering it's you, they are probably still far more advanced than anything any of the other students could come up with. :) H

Reading H's text made something warm settle in Sherlock's stomach, and he couldn't stifle a smile from spreading across his lips. He tried reminding himself that it was just a simple compliment, something normal people said to each other all the time, but the idiotic smile just wouldn't leave his face.

Suddenly, Sherlock was pulled out of his thoughts by an all-too-familiar voice, and the smile dropped from his face.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't our favourite freak."

Sherlock froze. This can't be happening, he told himself, as a heavy feeling of dread settled like a rock in his chest, replacing all the warm feelings that H's text had stirred up inside of him. It was the summer holidays, the time of year when he was supposed to be safe. Safe from the name-calling and the endless threats, from the pushing and hitting. The only time of year when he could let his guard down a little and relax.

"Texting with your mummy? We couldn't help but notice the  _ adorable _ smile on your pretty little face." Some sneering laughter erupted somewhere in front of him, and he recognised the voices of Jim, Leo and Anderson, the three people he hated the most--even more than he hated his idiot brother--in the entire universe. 

Slowly, Sherlock raised his head, swallowing back the bile rising up his throat. His eyes locked with Jim's, and he tried his best not to show how utterly terrified he was, trying to appear as unmoved as possible although the sneer on Jim's face made his skin crawl.

"It's none of your business, Jim," Sherlock spat out, willing his voice not to break, his knees feeling weak and rubbery under his weight.

Jim barked out a laugh, smiling at him condescendingly. "Come on, we all know that no one else in their right mind would want to text a pathetic little loser like you," Jim snickered mockingly, and a ripple of laughter followed his words. "I bet even your mum hates it."

Sudden fury spiked through Sherlock, making his cheeks heat up with anger. "Shut up." The words were out before he could stop them, and an immediate regret flooded him, his body going rigid with panic. He knew better than to defend himself.

"You think you're tough, do you?" Jim asked in a low threatening voice, taking a step closer, flanked on either side by Leo and Anderson.

Nausea churned sickly in Sherlock's stomach. Part of his brain was screaming at him to turn around and run, but his feet seemed glued to the ground, as he watched the three boys walk closer to him. All three of them played rugby and consequently were a lot bigger and stronger than Sherlock. It didn't take a genius to figure out that his slender body stood no chance against them. He certainly made up for his lack of size in intellect, but he was painfully aware that no amount of genius would save him from the beating that he was soon about to endure.

Sherlock had no idea what to do, and therefore settled on the one thing he always did in these situations: he tried to run away. Despite his panic, he quickly turned around and tried running in the opposite direction, but he was quickly stopped when a hand grabbed onto his backpack from behind, and pulled him back, turning him around. 

A fist interlocked with Sherlock's stomach and he groaned painfully.

The pain cut through him, and he was stunned for a moment, unable to react.

"Not so tough now, are you? Someone needs to remind you of what a pathetic loser you are," Jim said in a dangerous tone, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

Before Sherlock had time to recover, Jim took hold of his arm and twisted it behind his back, slamming him roughly against the ground. The impact sent a jolt of pain through him, his cheek scraping against the grit, and Sherlock groaned in agony, his arm trapped painfully behind his back.

"You know what,  _ freak _ ?" Jim asked through gritted teeth. "I've had enough of your above-it-all attitude, and I think it's time we show you where you belong."

Jim made a point out of straddling Sherlock's back, securing his arms, and pushing his face down hard into the rough asphalt. 

"You're disgusting," Jim spat, before motioning for Anderson and Leo to join him. They laughed as Jim got off of Sherlock's back, and Anderson dragged him up off the ground forcefully, holding him still against him, his arms still behind his back.

Sherlock felt another fist, this time in the side of his chest, and closed his eyes, willing himself to go into his mind palace until this was over. 

A kick to his stomach distracted him as the air left his lungs, leaving him breathless, desperately willing himself to take a breath.

Unable to breathe, Sherlock's knees buckled, but Anderson's tight grip held him upright. Sherlock felt something warm trickle over his cheek and lips, and his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. He felt so tired. Too tired to fight back. He just wanted it to be over.

Jim brought up his knee into Sherlock's stomach, and his body slumped against the pain, Anderson struggling to hold onto his dead weight. He could feel the bruises forming all over his arms, legs, chest and face, but he did nothing to protect himself. 

Not getting the response he wanted, Jim grew frustrated and started kicking and punching in earnest, and even Leo looked a little uncomfortable. He put his hand on Jim's shoulder and pulled him away. 

"Dude, it's not worth it.  _ He's _ not worth it."

 

~~ * ~~

 

Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed when he finally forced himself to get up from the ground, wincing in pain as his bruised body protested against the sudden movement.

He spat on the ground, his saliva tinted pink with blood, and did a quick scan of his body, assessing the extent of his injuries. At least he didn't have any broken bones, Sherlock thought bitterly, apart from a broken rib or two.

A sharp, excruciating pain radiated through his body as he slowly got up on his shaky legs, willing his knees not to buckle.

He knew he had to get home before Jim and his cronies changed their mind and came back to finish what they had started.

(12:45) Did you make it to school? H

(13:21) Guessing you're busy experimenting. :) H

(13:54) Did you set something on fire? H

(16:14) Sherlock? H

Back in the safety of his bedroom, Sherlock curled up in his bed, not bothering to change his filthy clothes or wash the dried blood off his face. His whole body hurt.

Now that he was finally alone, he couldn't contain his pain any longer, tears burning his eyelids, a lump forming in his throat. Sherlock started crying, uncontrollably, unable to stop the ugly sobs that burst from his throat. He felt so weak. So  _ pathetic. _

When his phone buzzed with a text from H, a sudden realisation hit him, his heart sinking in the pit of his stomach. He had told H where he was going. H had known that he was on his way to school. What if...?

No, H wouldn't betray him, Sherlock thought, trying to push the thought away, not wanting to believe that the only person who seemed to like him had something to do with the fact that he got beat up.

His stomach lurched sickly when his phone buzzed again. If H had had nothing to do with what had happened, Sherlock thought, how could Jim and his cronies have known where he was? It couldn't have been a mere coincidence; the probability of that was extremely low. Sherlock didn't even know H. For all he knew, H could be one of his bullies.

(18:23) Sherlock? Are you alright? H

 

John lay in his bed, his dad passed out on the sofa in the living room, and he just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Was it something he had said? Had Sherlock found out who he was, and decided he wasn't worth his time anymore?

 

Sherlock had never felt so alone. How could he have been so stupid? He had trusted a complete stranger and believed all his lies. He had believed that H liked  _ him _ , Sherlock Holmes, of all people. He had been so utterly stupid and blind.

(18:34) Sherlock, can you please answer me? H

Sherlock couldn't deny the facts; they were right in front of him. H had betrayed him. Tears still falling down his cheeks, he stared at his phone screen, at H's text, unsure whether he should tell him that he knew everything, that H could stop pretending.

(18:45) Okay, you're scaring me now. Sherlock???? H

(18:51) You got what you wanted. Just leave me alone. SH

 

John could feel panic rise in his chest at Sherlock's harsh words, and he had no idea what was going on. His heart was hammering wildly and uncomfortable butterflies were flying around in his stomach. 

(18:52) Sherlock, what's wrong? H

(18:55) Oh, please. You can stop pretending now. SH

(18:56) Pretending? You think I'm pretending???? H

_ Pretending? _ Did Sherlock think that everything John had told him had been a lie? That he had made it up? John simply couldn't wrap his head around the sudden change in demeanour. Sherlock had seemed so... genuine.

(19:00) Please tell me what's going on. H

(19:05) Sherlock. Please. H

Tears were pooling in John's eyes and his airways were constricting.

(19:20) You must be pretty damn proud of yourself for having fooled the oh-so-intelligent Sherlock Holmes. Well, you succeeded. I hope you're happy now. SH

(19:23) I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock. H

(19:25) Tell me, did you just tell them to beat me up or are you one of them? SH

Dread filled John upon reading Sherlock's words.  _ Had something happened? _ And did Sherlock really think that John was behind it? 

(19:27) Sherlock, what happened? I would never do that to you. H

 

More than anything, Sherlock wanted to believe H, but he was hurt and angry, and promised himself that he would never trust anyone so blindly again.

Determined not to let himself be fooled again, he clutched his phone to keep his fingers from shaking and typed another message.

(19:33) Why are you doing this? You won, you can stop it now. You were the only one who knew where I was going, the only one who could tell them where to find me.  SH

(19:35) Sherlock, please, you have to believe me. I had nothing to do with it. Are you hurt? H

(19:37) If you think so lowly of me, then fine, hate me, but PLEASE tell me what happened. H

 

What if he was wrong? What if he was going to ruin everything, ruin things between them, only because he refused to believe that H was telling the truth?

Sherlock started doubting himself, wondering whether he had been too hasty to judge H. Why would H have told him about his abusive father, about his being gay, if his only goal had been to hurt Sherlock?

 

Sherlock wasn't responding and John had no idea what to do. Something had obviously happened, Sherlock was in trouble and had been injured in some way, and he thought John was behind it. John was becoming more and more desperate by the minute. Before he could even register what was happening, he had picked up his phone and dialled Sherlock's number. It was extremely risky, letting Sherlock hear his voice, but he didn't feel like he had a choice. He had to make sure Sherlock would be alright, no matter if he would hate him or not for it. Biting back his tears, and fighting against the lump in his throat, he pressed the phone to his ear and took a shaky breath.

“Please, pick up. Please, pick up.  _ Please, pick up _ .”

 

Sherlock was just about to type another message when his phone started ringing. Stunned, he stared at the caller ID for a good few seconds, not knowing how to react.

Hesitatingly, he answered. "Hello?"

 

Not having expected Sherlock to actually pick up the phone, he was surprised to hear his low, baritone voice crackle over the line. John released a shaky breath, trying desperately not to sniffle or do anything embarrassing. His heart was beating hard and fast.

"Hi."

 

Sherlock stayed quiet, afraid his voice would crack if he attempted to speak.

Holding his breath, he waited for H to say something, wanting to hear his voice, wanting to hear that he was wrong, that H hadn't betrayed him.

 

"Sherlock..." John all but whispered, as he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, biting his lip as he listened to Sherlock's erratic breathing. Realising he would have to say something, he was the one who called after all, he cleared his throat and tried not to cry.

"Sherlock. I need those names."

The low growl with which he spoke surprised even himself.

"What did they do to you?"

 

"I... H, I don't know what to believe." Sherlock hated how weak he sounded. He was certain that H could hear that he had been crying.

 

"Sherlock, please," John pleaded to him. "Listen to me, okay? I've been worried sick about you. Just, give me a chance... I..."

John's voice broke and he had to take a shuddering breath to compose himself.

"I don't know what happened to you or why, but I didn't do anything. Christ, Sherlock... you're... the one thing keeping me sane, I can't..."

John bit down harder on his bottom lip, trying to stifle the tears that were rolling freely. Sherlock was going to think he was pathetic.

"I know calling was a huge risk, I just can't lose you."

John swore he heard the sharp intake of a breath, but he wasn’t entirely sure. 

"Sherlock, please say something."

 

"I want to believe you, I really do. I just... I don't…" Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath. "I was assaulted."

 

"Who did this to you, Sherlock?"

 

He let out a bitter laugh. "Jim, Anderson and Leo. The usual bunch."

 

The uncertainty John had felt a moment ago had been replaced with rage. He was furious that someone had laid their hands on Sherlock. 

"I'm going to kill them."

 

"It's not worth it, H."

 

"Yes, it bloody well is. You don't deserve this, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock laughed again, immediately regretting it as pain shot through his body. "I..." He had a fit of coughing, spitting up some blood-tinged sputum. When he recovered, he continued, "I think I really do. I should just learn to keep my mouth shut."

 

"Are you okay?"

Despite himself, John started giggling. 

"I like that you just say whatever you're thinking."

 

Sherlock let out a huff of surprise. "Oh... yeah, I am. Okay, I mean."

 

John felt his cheeks reddening.

"In a totally non-weird way, I mean."

 

"Of course."

 

Suddenly, John heard the loud crash of his father falling off of the sofa downstairs. He sighed.

"Look, Sherlock. Dad just woke up, so... I have to go. But, call me?"

John hung up faster than he had ever done before and groaned loudly. Why did he say that?  _ Oh God _ .

 

(20:02) I believe you, H. I think you should know that. SH

(23:54) Thank you. H

(23:56) Are you all right? You said your father woke up, before you ended the call. SH

(00:04) I'm okay. H

(00:06) Good. SH

(00:09) How are you feeling? H

(00:12) A little beat up, to tell you the truth. SH

(00:13) I'm so sorry. I wish I could make it better for you. H


	6. Chapter 6

_ Five days later. _

 

John was still concerned about Sherlock, but he was adamant to give him space. Considering how close he had been to losing him, John wanted to make sure he didn't get on Sherlock's nerves or said anything that he wouldn't like. Therefore he had figured he would be better off waiting for Sherlock to initiate conversation. That was five days ago, and John was starting to get fidgety.

Sherlock wasn't in a good place right now, John knew  _ exactly _ how that felt, and he wanted nothing more than to let Sherlock know he was there for him and cared for him, but something was holding him back. 

He sighed as he threw himself onto his bed, curling in on his own body and scrolling through their text conversation for the umpteenth time. John wished he knew what was going on in Sherlock's brilliant mind more than ever, but he was terrified of what he would discover.

He wasn't used to being  _ this  _ nervous and on edge, and deep down he knew why. But he refused to admit to himself that he had feelings for Sherlock; that the sound of his low, baritone voice had sent shivers down his spine.

 

The bruises on Sherlock's skin had started to heal, fading into pale green yellowish hues, and the scar on his cheek had formed an itching scab, which--Sherlock was fairly confident--would not leave a permanent mark. But it was still very obvious that Sherlock had been beaten to a pulp, and he preferred not to let the whole world know it, so he stayed inside, trying his best to find ways to avoid dying of boredom.

Sherlock hadn't heard from H since they had talked on the phone five days ago, and it made him feel uneasy. He was well aware that he was unusually bad at this friendship  _ thing _ \--or whatever it was that they had--and wasn't sure if H had meant it when he asked Sherlock to call him. And now here he was, bored and alone, staring at his phone screen, trying to decide whether or not to call H.

After changing his mind back and forth for the thirteenth time that evening, Sherlock finally pressed the call button and lifted the phone to his ear, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs.

 

John was startled when he saw his phone screen light up, and he pushed himself up on one elbow and reached for it, his heart starting to race as soon as he saw the name on the display.

 

Sherlock. 

 

"Hey," he said gently as he picked up. "What's up?"

"Um, hi. Nothing much, just thought I'd call to see how you're doing."

John closed his eyes, his lips curled up into a smile, and he huffed a nervous chuckle.

"I'm okay, Sher. How are  _ you  _ doing?"

"Wha-" Sherlock paused, shocked. "Did you just call me Sher?"

"Oh- o... I'm sorry," John stammered, flustered. "Was that wrong?"

"No, it's... fine." When H stayed silent for a moment, Sherlock added, "I also wanted to ask you something."

John tensed up, unsure how to respond. He decided to test the waters. 

"Okay, Sher," John breathed quietly. "What do you want to ask?"

"Are you sure we go to the same class? I mean, I'm quite sure I've never heard your voice before," Sherlock said, and then added hastily, "before our first call, that is."

John swallowed soundly.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"So you're one of those who sit in the back and never utter a single word?"

Oh god. This was getting dangerous.

 

"Uuuuh..." was all John managed to mutter before his bedroom door flung open and John's father stomped in, walking straight over to John's bed and grabbing the phone out of his hands, tossing it aside on the bed, but not hanging it up. He smelled of vomit and alcohol, his eyes were blood red and furious. As he grabbed John from the bed he started screaming.

"WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?"

"Just someone fro-"

"Shut the FUCK up you  _ disgusting _ faggot of a son. I will NOT have you running around fucking other boys."

John tried desperately to protect his face as his father aimed the first punch landing on his neck, causing him to stagger backward and hitting his back hard against his wooden wardrobe. He ducked in on himself as his dad punched him in the stomach and face, all the while uttering how pathetic he thought John was. 

John was mortified. He prayed that Sherlock had hung up the phone call but he assumed he wasn't going to be so lucky. 

"Nobody will ever love you, you sick fuck," his dad growled as he pushed John to the floor and started kicking. John's arms went up to his face automatically, attempting to shield himself from damage. Pain flared from every surface of his body, and he gasped loudly when a kick landed on his newly healed rib. Biting back tears, he lay absolutely still until his dad was satisfied, stumbling out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

He crawled over to his bed, got his phone out and saw the call was still ongoing. Disconnecting the line, John leaned his back against his bed and cried.

 

Sherlock was panicking. He could still hear the sound of punches hitting flesh and bone ringing in his ears. The only clear thought in his head was that H was in danger.

With trembling fingers, Sherlock dialled H's number, silently begging him to pick up the phone.

 

With quiet sobs wrecking his body, John declined the phone call. There was no way John could stand the level of pure humiliation; Sherlock wouldn't want anything to do with him, that's why he was calling.

John was beginning to hyperventilate, his forehead resting on his knees as he rocked himself back and forth, his arms clinging tightly around his own legs. He knew he was having a panic attack, but he couldn't do much other than see it through.

(20:03) H, are you all right? Please, pick up the phone. SH

Sherlock hated to sound desperate but he was too worried about H to care.

(21:18) H, please. I need to know you're okay. SH

(22:01) Just let me know you're okay. SH 

(23:22) Please. SH

(23:34) I need to know you're alive. SH

 

(03:21) Hey. H

(03:22) H, thank god. What happened? Are you all right? SH

(03:25) I don't want to talk about it. H

(03:27) I understand. I'm sorry. SH

John could feel tears swell in his eyes again and he felt so stupid, but everything was aching horribly and there was no way he was going to sleep like this. 

 

(03:29) Can I call? Can you just talk about something? Anything? H

(03:30) I just want to hear your voice. H

(03:30) Oh. Of course. SH

John's fingers shook as he pressed the call button on Sherlock's contact profile.

Sherlock picked up on the first signal.

 

"Hi," John managed weakly. "Look, please, don't talk about it, I feel humiliated as it is. Just... tell me some science stuff."

 

H's unexpected request threw Sherlock off balance, and he stayed quiet for a moment, not knowing what to say.

"Um... what do you want to know?" H would have to be a bit more specific than that, Sherlock thought, a nervous fluttering in his stomach making its presence known.

"Anything. Please" John breathed.

"Uh... well, did you know that a single solar flare, a.k.a. an intense flash of radiation, can release an amount of energy that is equal to that of millions of 100-megaton atomic bombs." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Sherlock flushed and added quickly: "I'm sorry. You probably find stuff like that boring."

"No, no, please continue."

John found himself slowly relaxing into his pillow, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of Sherlock's voice.

 

After a short pause, Sherlock drew in a quick breath and continued, telling H about the latest advances in space science, trying to remember as many details as possible about the things he had read, wanting to prolong the conversation in case H's father came back.

He paused from time to time, listening to H's breathing, making sure the boy was still there, awake and alive. There was something calming about the way H breathed out softly, a huff barely audible through the phone line, and Sherlock found himself getting lost in the sound of his breathing, pausing a little longer each time before he continued talking.

 

John felt himself drifting off toward sleep, the soft murmuring of Sherlock in his ears. He was sure he was going to dream about stars and planets somewhere in outer space. Letting out one long breath, he succumbed to his body's needs and allowed himself to fall into a light slumber.

 

Noticing that H's breathing had slowed down to a light, regular pattern, Sherlock immediately knew that he had fallen asleep. Slightly panicked, Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear, unsure whether he should try to wake him up or just end the call. But the thought of ending the call made him panic even more. Sherlock was afraid of what H's father would do if he came back and found his son asleep. 

Very well aware of how creepy it would seem if H found out, Sherlock decided to put his phone on speaker and set it on the bed next to him, just in case H's father came back.

He did not want to admit to himself that part of the reason he did it was to be able to listen to the soothing sound of H's breathing.

Lying in his bed, listening to the rise and fall of H's breath, Sherlock let himself drift off to sleep.

 

~~ * ~~

 

The sun had come up by the time John woke again and he groaned in pain as he stretched his battered body. His phone was lying next to him and he picked it up, only to see that the call with Sherlock was still on-going. Warmth spread in his chest and he couldn't suppress a smile from plastering itself on his face. As quietly as possible, he put the phone to his ear and listened.

Sherlock appeared to be fast asleep, the steady sound of rhythmic breathing giving it away. John closed his eyes and listened a little bit longer, before whispering softly. 

"Thank you, Sherlock. Sleep well."

The line disconnected.


	7. Chapter 7

_One week later._

 

Sherlock had spent the whole morning at Scotland Yard, going through reports and helping Greg solve a few cases that had turned out to be child’s play, even though Greg had assured him several times that they were “impossibly difficult”. Due to the lack of challenge and mental stimulation, it had not taken long for Sherlock to get bored and start observing the people around him, not bothering to think about the appropriateness of letting everyone know who at the Yard was unfaithful to his husband, and who had a serious porn addiction.

After deducing some harsh truths about Greg’s colleagues and rather loudly informing everyone of them, the man had shooed him away, telling him to shut his smart-arse mouth and sod off.

And now here he was, loitering outside a nearby café, still completely and utterly bored, observing the passers-by to pass the time.

Absentmindedly, Sherlock reached for a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, and started looking for his lighter, annoyance creeping up on him as he realised that he had forgotten it at the station.

Groaning in frustration, Sherlock ran his right hand through his unruly curls, failing to notice the young man who had started approaching him from across the street.

"Need a light, baby?" the stranger said as he reached the café and held his lighter out beneath Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's first reaction was to open his mouth and tell the creep to leave him alone, not having the patience to deal with another idiot, but just as he was about to spit the words, his eyes caught sight of the stranger in front of him and his mouth snapped shut.

Expecting some slimy douchebag, Sherlock wasn't prepared for the intense gaze looking back at him through impossibly long, dark eyelashes, sliding up and down Sherlock's body before settling on his face.

For a moment, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to utter a single world, staring at the dark-haired, rather tall man standing in front of him, unable to remove his eyes from the sharp jawline, trying not to focus on the smirk playing on his full lips.

Slowly, Sherlock swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat, and forced himself to speak, "Um... yes. Thank you."

The stranger flicked his thumb over the roll on the lighter and a small flame erupted. Sherlock took a cigarette between his lips and leaned down, sucking in deeply as the tip hit the flame, his eyes never leaving the other man's.

The grin on the man's face only seemed to increase as Sherlock's cheeks reddened slightly, and he extended his hand in greeting.

"Victor," he purred, winking at Sherlock with his right eye. "Pleasure to meet ya'."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Name’s almost as gorgeous as your face." Victor leaned in close against Sherlock's left ear, his breath tickling Sherlock's neck. "Say, fancy taking a stroll?"

Sherlock tried his best to ignore what his body was telling him, focusing on his breathing and attempting to reason with himself that his body's reaction to this man was completely irrational.

But his heart kept pounding in his chest, ignoring his feeble attempts to slow down its rate, and Sherlock became more and more aware of the fact that he was extremely turned on.

"Err... why not?"

"Excellent," Victor purred again and hooked his arm in Sherlock's, practically dragging him along the street. He took the cigarette out of Sherlock's mouth and put it to his own lips while regarding Sherlock hungrily.

"You around here much?" Victor asked as they passed a crossing.

Sherlock wasn't used to getting this much attention, let alone hearing so many compliments on his appearance. He felt dizzy and light-headed, instinctively leaning into the touch of the man's arm against his.

Sherlock knew he was being reckless, but the strong arm holding him close and the delicious smell of the man's cologne were clouding his judgement.

"Yes, um, I work close by. What about you?"

Victor smirked.

"Nah, just moved here, transferring to West Bank after the summer," he said with a shrug. "Need to scout my territory, ya' know?"

Sherlock realised he should probably say something. His brain was really not obeying him.

"Oh, I go there," he said and tried to sound nonchalant, but mostly ended up sounding flustered. Sherlock dared cast a sideway glance at Victor, and was met with an intense stare. Victor's eyes were beautifully brown, his skin flawless and tanned. Subconsciously, Sherlock lowered his gaze to Victor's lips, casually observing that they were parted and moist.

In the next moment, Sherlock let out a surprised gasp as he was forcefully dragged into the alleyway they were just passing, and found himself pressed backwards up against the dark brick wall. In an instant, Victor's lips were on his, and it took Sherlock a few seconds to process what was happening, but once he had regained his senses he opened his mouth slightly, allowing Victor better access to his mouth.

Sherlock had felt fleeting attractions in the past but he had never acted on his desires, knowing that his feelings would not be reciprocated. He had learned early on that he was different, and that fact had been drilled into him by the constant bullying he had been enduring since secondary school.

But this time he was on the receiving end of attraction and his mind was running on overdrive, trying to make sense of what was happening, his brain registering the firm pressure of the boy's lips on his. Sherlock melted in the sensation of Victor's tongue against his, the tip of it moving along his lips. His lungs burning in his chest, he felt a rush of heat flooding him from head to toe, the new sensations sending tiny sparks along his spine.

Heat pooling in his lower abdomen, Sherlock had to break the kiss to breathe. He was shaking as he gasped for air, his pulse thudding in his ears, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. His cheeks flushed, Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet those of Victor.

His eyes were glazed and his lips were swollen, and the intensity in his gaze was a little intimidating. Sherlock could see he was also struggling to regain his composure and catch his breath, the outline of an erection visible through the fabric of his jeans.

Before Sherlock could think about what had just happened, Victor reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pen and paper. He quickly scribbled his phone number and gave it to Sherlock, leaning in and kissing his cheek.

"Call me," Victor breathed before he turned abruptly, leaving Sherlock confused and exposed, his head resting against the cool and hard bricks behind him.

 

~~*~~

 

That afternoon, John felt increasingly anxious. Despite it having been a week since his father had had an angry episode, John's chest still hurt when he took deep breaths, and it stopped him from going for a jog, something he normally did to distract his busy thoughts from becoming overwhelming. It didn't help that Sherlock wasn't answering his text messages. Not that he had sent many, or that they very especially urgent. He just wished he knew what Sherlock was doing.

They hadn't really spoken since John's last incident, and John felt it rest like a heavy weight on his shoulders. Of course, it was _his_ fault that things had become a little off between them. John understood, though. It wasn't easy to keep in touch with someone who was so weak and pathetic, who couldn't even please his own father, no matter how hard he tried. Sherlock was far too intelligent to waste his time on John and his petty problems. Still, it hurt a little.

John's father wasn't at home, it was a Friday afternoon after all, and safely assumed that he would be gone for another few hours. No doubt would he return home, drunk as hell, and show John what was what. John was fidgeting, and he found himself pacing his room, but nothing was helping to relieve his anxiety.

Dragging his hands through his hair for the twentieth time, he dug up his phone from his pocket.

No new messages. Of course.

John decided, against his better judgement, to text Sherlock one more time before giving up.

(20:12) Message me later? H

He pressed send and pushed his phone into his back pocket again, opting to take a shower, desperate to relieve some of the pressure and anger that was gradually building inside him. He stomped off into the bathroom, slamming the door for good measure, and sank down on the cold tiles, his head resting against the wall.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he leaned over to the left and reached for his razor that he used to shave. He pressed it against his inner left arm and quickly pulled it sideways, surprised when a thin red line appeared on his skin. Dropping the razor, he looked at his arm with fascination. A small drop of blood had started pooling in the corner of the small cut, and he squeezed it gingerly until the surface tension broke and the droplet started rolling. Finally, if only for a few minutes, his thoughts stopped spiraling.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about Victor, about his intense, dark brown eyes that had suddenly made his knees go weak, his prominent jawline and carefully styled hair that had had just enough product in it to make it look accidentally tousled; about his slim but strong body, the broad shoulders and solid arms. And his lips. His lips, kissing Sherlock's. Just the thought of those full, pretty lips, pressed against his, sent shivers down Sherlock's spine.

It had been the first time Sherlock had been kissed, and his mind struggled to process the experience, all the new sensations and feelings kicking his brain into overdrive.

He knew he was treading on dangerous territory, his brother's countless warnings ringing in his ears, but the idea of being wanted by someone made his heart race rapidly, a wave of heat flooding through his body, settling low in his stomach.

Sherlock had never dreamed, never thought it possible that another human being would be attracted to him. The thought of someone like Victor being interested in a pathetic little freak like him felt too good to be true.

Taking his phone out of his pocket, Sherlock was about to save the man's number in his phone when he noticed a text from H. His meeting with Victor had made him forget about everything else, including his phone and H.

(22:12) You wanted me to text you? SH

(22:13) Yeah, hi. H

(22:14) Where have you been? H

(22:16) Oh, nowhere. SH

(22:17) How are you? SH

(22:18) Fine, you? H

(22:25) I'm fine. SH

 

John's stomach clenched uncomfortably. Sherlock was being unusually short in his replies. John assumed he had done something wrong, but wasn't in the mood to inquire further.

(22:29) I can tell you're busy. Message me when you have time? :) H

(22:36) Oh, no. I'm not busy. SH

(22:39) Then what is it? Did I do something? H

(22:44) What? No. Why would you think that? SH

(22:47) Nevermind, it's not important. What have you been up to? H

(22:50) Not that you have to tell me everything you do. H

(22:51) Just curious. :) H

(22:55) Nothing much, just helping at Scotland Yard and wandering around the city. What about you? SH

(00:01) Nothing. H

(00:03) What is up with you? SH

(00:04) What? H

(00:07) You seem angry at me, and I haven't the slightest idea why. SH

Unable to handle his emotions, John put his phone back in his pocket and silently made his way downstairs. His father was already passed out drunk on the sofa, so it wasn't difficult for him to step around him and open the liquor cabinet; it wasn't as if his dad were going to notice some was missing anyway. John grabbed the closest bottle, Jack Daniel's whiskey, and walked back upstairs to his room. During his ascent he felt vibration from his back pocket, but he shrugged it off and unscrewed the bottle cap, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a large chug. It tasted terrible, but the heat that spread down his oesophagus to his stomach comforted him a little.

(00:08) I could say the same to you, Sher. H

(00:10) I'm not angry, just thinking. SH

Heading back into his room, John went to the bathroom and decided to settle for lying in the bathtub, determined to finish the bottle as soon as he could. He was pretty light-weight when it came to alcohol, always had been, and he already felt the alcohol in his bloodstream, numbing down all senses.

(00:34) What are you thinkgsi about? H

(00:39) I think you forgot to double-check your text before sending. SH

(00:41) Why won't you just answer the question? H

(00:42) You're drunk. SH

(00:43) I'm not shrink! H

(00:44) shrunk H

(00:45) Drunk H

(00:45) Go to sleep, H. SH

John hit the call button without thinking.

"H? Is everything all right?"

"Why won't you just answer the damn question?" John said, exasperation clear in his voice.

"What are you talking about? What question?"

"The thing, Sherlock!" John slurred slightly. "With the thinking?"

He hadn't meant to phrase it as a question but he just felt so distant to himself, as if he weren’t in full control of his body.

Startled by the anger in H's voice, Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment, the sudden change in him making something lurch uncomfortably in his stomach. "I was just thinking about someone I met. Nothing important."

John froze, and snapped back to himself. _Sherlock had met someone?_ Did he mean he met a friend, had me met someone he liked? Despite himself, John felt jealousy flaring up, hot and red.

"You... met someone?" John asked carefully, praying to whatever deity was out there that his voice conveyed no trace of the inner turmoil he was experiencing.

"Oh, yeah... just some guy," Sherlock said, trying to appear nonchalant, attempting to turn the conversation away from himself. "Why are you drinking?"

"Oh, errr... oh, just happened, you know?" John swallowed soundly. "So, who's the guy?"

Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably, not liking the fact that H was drunk. "His name is Victor. He's transferring to our school after the summer."

John closed his eyes and willed the jealousy to subside. Sherlock didn't even know who he was, for God's sake. He moved the phone from his ear for a moment, trying to compose himself.

"Ah, congratulations I guess?"

"Congratulations on what?"

"Your... guy?"

"He's not _mine,"_ Sherlock huffed, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"Oh, my bad."

He felt guilty that all he thought was how relieved he was. Sherlock deserved to be happy, more than anyone else John knew, but he was selfish and drunk and needed to hear Sherlock speak for just a little while longer. Even if it was torturous for him.

"Are you... do you want him to be?"

"Why do you care?" Sherlock asked, his question coming out more harshly than he had intended, embarrassed by the fact that some part of his brain very well wanted Victor to be his.

"Sorry, Sher," John murmured, regret instantly hitting him as he heard Sherlock's defensive response. "Just want you to be happy."

Sherlock let out a quiet sound of surprise, H's words making something flutter in his stomach. "Oh."

"I'm gonna go..." John quickly stuttered, afraid that he had made a mistake and been too obvious about his feelings. Slightly panicked, John hit the end call button and threw his phone across the bathroom floor, hearing it crack as the front screen hit the tiles. He covered his face in his hands.

_Oh, fuck._

 

Sherlock listened to the beeping sound of the disconnected line, too stunned to lower the phone from his ear.

No one had ever said anything like that to him before, and the fact that H had sounded so sincere baffled him, his mind unable to grasp why someone would care about how he felt.

 

~~*~~

 

After several hours of hesitation, Sherlock had finally made up his mind, his whole body tingling with nervous energy as he started tapping out a text message.

Victor had told him to call him, Sherlock remembered, but he was far too shaky to trust his voice, his fingers trembling over the buttons as he carefully chose what to type. He couldn't risk the embarrassment of sounding like a nervous child. Not when he was about to contact a man who undoubtedly was a hundred times more mature and experienced than him.

He was so used to being in control of his emotions that he barely recognised himself, having always thought himself cold and calculating, the loner who would have his science books and Petri dishes but never experience his first kiss. But now here he was, craving contact with another human being, the mere thought of soft lips pressed firmly against his making his heart beat in anticipation.

(20:04) I thought I'd send you a text so you'd have my number, too. It was nice meeting you. SH

Mindlessly flicking through his text messages, trying not to obsess over whether or not Victor would reply, Sherlock remembered the conversation he had had with H the day before, the memory of his drunken voice still bright and clear in his mind, twisting his insides. He supposed he was a little disappointed, having much preferred the calmer, less angry version of the boy, but he knew it didn't really matter, already having accepted the fact that H didn't want them to meet in person.

(20:11) Hey baby ;) miss me already? V

Blood rushed to Sherlock's cheeks as he read Victor's reply, the notion of being called baby instead of freak making something warm bloom in his chest.

(20:15) I suppose you could say that. SH

(20:17) Suppose we better do something about that. You free tomorrow? V

A wave of nervous anticipation swept over him, his heart rate reaching a new high as he read the text again and again, just to make sure that he hadn't misunderstood anything.

(20:20) Yes, I'm free. SH

(20:23) Meet me at Amigos, 6pm. Know where that is? Don't be late. ;) V

(20:25) Yes, I know. I won't. SH


	9. Chapter 9

John was starting to become antsy, having spent far too much time holed up in his bedroom. His father had been on his best behaviour, thankfully, but boredom was replacing the usual anxiety he experienced, and he knew he just  _ had _ to get out for a few hours. He decided to send a text to Mary and ask if she was free, not waiting long for the answer that yes, she was. John headed downstairs and started putting on his shoes. He heard his dad clear his throat, standing perched against the wall in the living room doorway.

"Where are you going, Johnny?" he asked suspiciously.

"I'm going to see Mary," John answered honestly.

"Great!" his dad said happily and John knew that he was happy for all the wrong reasons. He didn't know that Mary was  _ als _ o gay; not that he knew John was gay. He suspected it, but John had never actually been with a man or uttered the words out loud.

Picking up his keys, he walked out and locked the door behind him, starting with a brisk pace toward the nearby café that Mary had agreed to meet him at. It was warm and sunny, and the sunrays felt good against John's skin; it really had been far too long since he was outside. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the café and pushed the door open. Mary was already seated at a small table at the window, but she spotted him immediately and waved him over, a broad smile on his face.

As John strode closer, her smile faltered a little, but she stood and wrapped him in a hug nonetheless.

"You look terrible, John," she laughed lightly, but he knew that she was concerned for him.

He scratched his hair awkwardly and detached himself from Mary's grip.

"Yeah, I know," he said, looking down at his feet, chewing on his bottom lip absentmindedly.

"Okay," Mary said, pulling him down into a chair and settling in the chair opposite him. She crossed her arms and regarded him for a moment, no doubt seeing the fading bruises on his neck, arms and face. They had never spoken about that John sometimes was absent from school for a week, or that he sometimes showed up with new bruises, but he was sure Mary knew something was happening at home. She just never breached the subject. "Spill."

"I.. uh..." John said, clearing his throat and looking up at Mary through his lashes. He could see the genuine affection displayed on her face and it urged him on. "There's this guy..." John sighed and hid his face in his hands, not wanting to see the shock on Mary's face.

To his surprise, Mary started laughing; it was a genuine, snorting kind of laugh. He looked up at her, incredulous, and shot her a quizzical look.

"You think I didn't already know you were  _ gay? Please." _

She laughed again and John felt relieved somehow. This wasn't going to be a big deal, after all.

"It's your gay-dar, huh?" he joked and Mary smirked at him, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair back in place behind her ear. A waitress approached their table and they each ordered a cup of coffee, and Mary leaned in closer to him over the table.

"So, who is he?" she inquired, narrowed eyes.

"I... someone at school," John said frowning. "But please, you can't tell anyone. And I mean  _ anyone." _

"Of course, John," Mary said genuinely and John was at once incredibly grateful for having her in his life. "I promise."

"Okay," John said and took a deep breath to compose himself and settle his nerves. "It's... look, he doesn't know who I am, I happened to get his number by chance, and he  _ can't _ know who I am. My dad, he... doesn't take that kind of thing very well. But yeah, the guy it's... it's Sherlock."

Mary looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Sherlock, who?"

"Uh... tall, grey eyes, brown curls, slim, a complete smartarse," John further explained and felt his cheeks blushing as he described Sherlock to Mary.

"Oh!" Mary said, her eyes widening. Then she started giggling hysterically and John suspected she may have suffered a stroke. But then he, too, started giggling, and for the first time in a long while, he actually felt a little better.

 

~~ * ~~

 

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sherlock let his back fall against the sheets, his head hitting the pillow with a quiet thump. Just the thought of Victor, the confidence he had radiated, stirred nerves in him that had been dormant for all his life. The turmoil inside him overwhelming his senses, Sherlock lay sprawled across his bed, the rational part of his brain screaming at him to return to the safety of the walls he had so carefully built around himself, but the hormone-driven part assured him that he was too far gone to control himself.

Sherlock turned his head slightly on the pillow to look at the clock on his nightstand, a quick glance at the numbers telling him that it was time for him to leave for the restaurant where Victor had suggested they would meet.

Combing his fingers through his hair, trying to tame his unruly curls, Sherlock got up from the bed and tried to ignore the butterflies taking flight in his stomach. He was in a mixed state of nervous agitation and impatient anticipation; utterly terrified of what would happen when he met Victor again, but at the same time feeling that he would burst if he had to wait one minute longer.

Sherlock spent the whole walk to the restaurant taking slow, deep breaths, trying to calm his overactive nerves that threatened to force him to turn around and return home to hide in his room among the safety of his books and test tubes. He had to keep talking himself into continuing, as his knees wobbled under his weight, ready to give out on him at any moment.

When he reached the sign outside the restaurant, Sherlock stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes for a short moment, and drew in one last, deep breath before entering and sitting down at the first free table he saw, not trusting his shaky legs to carry him any longer.

Victor entered the restaurant ten minutes late, his hair disheveled and his dark jeans impossibly tight. As he spotted Sherlock through his sunglasses he sat down opposite him, shrugging off his black leather jacket, revealing a snugly fit black and red checkered top, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his toned forearms. 

"Hey, baby," Victor beamed at Sherlock. "You made it."

As unnoticeably as possible, Sherlock quickly smoothed down his curls, and nodded his greeting, trying not to stare at the breathtaking sight in front of him but failing miserably.

He was afraid that Victor could see his frantically beating heart through the dark plum-coloured long-sleeve button-down shirt he was wearing. Along with the shirt, he was dressed in a pair of black jeans, an outfit that he usually felt fairly confident in, but the intense scrutiny in Victor's eyes seemed to strip him of any confidence he had had when he had entered the restaurant.

The corner of Victor's mouth shot up in a cocky smile, and he scooted further onto his chair until his and Sherlock's knees were touching underneath the table. 

"Hungry?" he winked at Sherlock. "I know what I'm having." 

Victor's eyes moved to look at Sherlock's lips and Sherlock found himself speechless.

As if the sudden contact hadn't been enough to send a shower of sparks shooting down his spine, the hungry look in Victor's eyes made sure that Sherlock's body was tingling all over. A blush invaded his cheeks, and mortified, Sherlock lowered his gaze. He felt so inexperienced.  _ So pathetic. _

"Um... not really," he muttered, and then added hastily, "but you can eat, I don't mind."

Victor's eyes left Sherlock's body for a moment, eyeing the menu. When he felt satisfied, he put the menu down and a pretty, young waitress made her way over.

"Hey, sweetheart," he smiled warmly at the waitress. "I'll have the steak, and we will share a bottle of red, please."

Victor turned back to Sherlock, who was looking more than a little bit uncomfortable, and scooted even closer, his head resting on his elbows on the table. Never breaking eye contact, Victor moved his knees so that they one was in between Sherlock's, and the other to the right. Squeezing slightly, he narrowed his eyes and Sherlock felt a foot caressing his inner calf. 

"What do you do for fun?" Victor asked.

Sherlock shifted his eyes to stare at a ketchup stain on the table in a feeble attempt to ignore the heat surging through his body.

"Um... I help at the Yard, do some experiments, stuff like that. Nothing fancy. What about you?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he had lied, certain that Victor would think he was boring and childish.

"I do nothing that's appropriate for a first date," Victor said without hesitation.

Again, Sherlock flushed bright red. He gathered some courage and said, "I don't mind."

Victor let out a low chuckle, and something mischievous flickered in his eyes. 

But in that moment the pretty waitress returned with food, and Victor took the wine bottle and poured two glasses. He pushed one of them across the table to Sherlock. 

"Drink," he commanded.

Sherlock forced himself to pick up the glass and take a big gulp of the wine, determined not to show just how inexperienced he was. He felt the alcohol flowing down his throat, warming him from within, as he lifted his eyes to meet Victor’s gaze. Sherlock had never had more than a few sips of alcohol, and it didn’t take long before he started to feel a slight buzz, finding himself relaxing in his seat.

Victor took note to refill Sherlock's glass whenever it became empty, and it wasn't long before they had finished the bottle between them. His food was long since gone, and he stood to pay, leaving Sherlock at the table for a moment. When he came back, he grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him out of his chair, a hand clutching around his waist to keep him stable. Sherlock was swerving a little at this point. Keeping his grip tight, he led them out of the restaurant and around the corner to the kitchen entrance. There was no one in the alley, and Victor released his hold of Sherlock and fished out a cigarette. He lit it, took a drag, and breathed out through his nose, offering the lit fag to Sherlock.

Sherlock felt sluggish, his thought process a lot slower than usual, his limbs warm and heavy. He did not like the feeling of not being in full control of his mind, but he was too drunk to care.

Sherlock took the cigarette from Victor’s hand, swaying a little as he tried to keep his balance. “Thanks,” he said, his words coming out a bit slurry.

They finished the cigarette in silence, passing it between each other, and Victor put it out with the boot of his sneakers, tossing it aside on the ground. Then he turned toward Sherlock who was leaning against the wall and approached him slowly, a predatory look in his eyes.

Sherlock let out a gasp of surprise when he suddenly felt Victor’s hands grazing down his chest and down his sides, making his skin tingle. He could feel his knees buckle under his weight, but just as he was about to fall, Victor grabbed hold of his shoulders and pinned him to the wall, crashing his lips against Sherlock's.

Victor took hold of both of Sherlock's wrists and pressed them against the wall, high above his head. He took a step closer, his knee and thigh in between Sherlock's legs and moved to hold both Sherlock's wrists in his left hand, his right coming up to pull roughly on his hair. Victor's tongue lapped at the Sherlock's bottom lip, and he opened his mouth in response, deepening the kiss. Breaking apart for a moment, Victor moved to kiss Sherlock's jaw and neck, and without warning he bit down hard enough to break skin. Sherlock yelped in surprise.

Before he had had time to recover, he could feel the man’s damp breath tickle his ear, his tongue sweeping across his neck, as his brain struggled to keep up, barely registering the hands that were moving all over his body.

He trailed light kisses all the way down Sherlock's neck, and with nimble fingers Victor unbuttoned the top three buttons on Sherlock's shirt, pushing it to the side to reveal more of his neck and shoulders. Biting down hard on Sherlock's shoulder, he pushed his knee up against his groin, providing friction.

Sherlock gasped in surprise, answering with an unintentional thrust of his hips, as heat washed through him, pooling low in his abdomen.

Alcohol pulsing through his blood, he tried to stay alert, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts as he struggled to get air into his aching lungs.

Using Sherlock's desperation to his advantage, Victor let go of Sherlock's hands and grabbed his hair with both hands, pulling downward. Sherlock's knees buckled with ease and he hit the pavement hard, but he could hardly feel the pain emanating from his knees. He was struggling to keep his eyes open and his vision blurred, but a firm hand on his right shoulder held him in place. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise as he heard the sound of a zipper unlocking, but he was too far gone to react to it.

Victor unbuttoned the top button on his jeans and pulled them down slightly, his breath hitching as his erection sprung free. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, and Victor used the moment to push the tip of his cock into his mouth. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, a dazed panic visible in his eyes, but it was clouded by the alcohol surging through him.

"No teeth," Victor said harshly and pushed in further, forcing Sherlock's mouth open with the shaft. Victor held Sherlock's head in place firmly and started moving, not caring about the discomforting sounds Sherlock was making. 

It didn't take him long to finish, and when he was done he tucked himself away, zipped up and walked off, leaving Sherlock behind in the alleyway.

Wiping his mouth, Sherlock scrambled to his feet, his head swimming from the alcohol. He managed to stay upright by leaning against the wall behind him, and he rested his head against the cold bricks, feeling his pulse beating violently in his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm down his erratic breathing, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Victor was gone, and Sherlock was vaguely aware of panic twisting in his guts, but the feeling was dulled by the alcohol in his bloodstream, and he felt too queasy, too tired, to really care or think.

All he wanted, in that moment, was to get back home and sleep.

 

~~ * ~~

 

(23:31) Hey, Sher. Sorry about the other night... H


	10. Chapter 10

The first thought Sherlock had when he woke up the next morning was that someone must have replaced his brain with cotton wool. The second thought he had was that he had to get to the bathroom and fast. Quickly, Sherlock crawled out of his bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, nausea churning in his stomach. He had just enough time to lift the toilet lid before doubling over and vomiting violently, his insides convulsing as he heaved and heaved until his stomach was completely empty.

Sherlock slumped down onto the cold floor, cold sweat prickling on his forehead, his throat burning from the vomit. With watering eyes, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve as the night before started coming back to him.

A wave of embarrassment hit him as he recalled what he had done, the memory of Victor’s cock in his mouth making his stomach churn again. Sherlock swallowed hard around his sore throat, not wanting to think about the fact that the man had left right after, leaving him alone in the empty alleyway. The only probable explanation he could think of was that he had done something wrong, it having been the first time he had touched another man’s erection. A heavy dread settling in his chest, Sherlock realised what a disappointment he must have been to someone as experienced as Victor.

For once in his life he could have had a chance with someone, someone who found him attractive, and now he had fucked it up like the loser he was. Victor would never want to talk to him again, of that Sherlock was certain.

Feeling weak, his head throbbing painfully, Sherlock dragged himself back to his bedroom and collapsed in a heap on his bed. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand until his fingers closed around it. To his surprise, he found a text message from H.

(09:49) It's fine. You don’t need to apologise. SH

(09:59) I know I don't have to. I want to. H

Sherlock felt so pathetic lying there, curled up in a foetal position, unable to shake the thought that no one would ever want him again. Not even H would want anything to do with him once he found out how pathetic he was.

(10:02) Apology accepted. SH

(10:10) I'm glad. Missed you. :) H

(10:11) Really? SH

(10:13) Really?! Are you crazy? Of course I did, you idiot. H

(10:15) Oh. People don't normally miss me. SH

(10:15) I missed you, too. SH

(10:17) <3 H

(10:20) What is less than three? SH

(10:23) What? H

(10:24) You just sent me a text with a less-than sign and the number three. SH

(10:26) Oh my god are you serious? H

John was desperately trying to stifle his giggling.

(10:27) What? SH

(10:28) Oh my god you are ridiculous. Tilt your phone to the left. H

(10:29) Is that supposed to be a heart? That's just stupid. SH

(10:30) Stop making me laugh so hard. H

(10:33) What's so funny? SH

(10:35) You are. H

(10:36) <3 H

(10:38) Wait, why did you sent a heart to me? SH

(10:40) Anyway, I have to go. Talk to you later. H

To Sherlock (10:43) Hey, baby. Party at the dorms tomorrow. Be there x V

Hastily, Sherlock got up on his elbow when he saw who the text message was from. Blinking his eyes rapidly, he had to do a double-take, unable to believe that Victor had contacted him again. He had been so sure that the man would want nothing to do with him after his sad attempt at a blowjob that getting a message from him completely stunned Sherlock. His heart leaped in his chest as the reality of Victor inviting him to a party slowly sank in, and he eagerly tapped out a reply.

(10:45) Sure. See you there. SH

~~ * ~~

John felt okay. Not good, but not overwhelmingly bad either. That's why he'd agreed to join Mary for the dormitory party that evening. She had been begging him to go since it had originally been planned two weeks ago. He had said no, not really feeling like socialising when he wasn't feeling like his usual self, but after having reconciled with Sherlock he felt better. That's why he found himself sat with Mary on a sofa in the loud common room of the dorm, their faces close together as they tried to talk to each other over the music.

"He met someone?" Mary asked for the third time, and John had to lean in and put his ear against Mary's mouth. 

John nodded sullenly and Mary regarded him with sympathy as she put her arm around his shoulders. 

"He's missing out," she said and John had to smile at her, appreciating her trying to make him feel better. He put his head on her shoulder and she placed a hand in his hair, just holding him, and it felt good. Sitting back up, he took a deep swig of the drink in his hand, enjoying the numbing sensation of alcohol.

Having already greeted Mike earlier, John took a look around the room to see if there was anyone else there that he knew, or liked. He scanned the living area but found no one of interest, his eyes instead falling on the dark hallway leading up to the toilet. 

That's when he saw, and he momentarily forgot how to breathe.

In the dark was Sherlock with whom he presumed was Victor, kissing. It wasn't lazy kissing either; it was full-on groping. From what John could make out, Sherlock's face was red and his balance was a little off.  _ Was he drunk? _ John felt his heart hammering desperately, and he felt his self-control slipping, his face a stern mask of indifference. Gently nudging Mary with an elbow he nodded in Sherlock's direction and Mary looked, confused at first, but soon matching the same frown John was now wearing. 

"I'm sorry, John," she said, but John knew that it was his own doing. If only he didn't keep pushing Sherlock away, if he didn't have a psychopathic father, if he was more comfortable with who he really was... 

He felt the usual anxiety beginning to stir in his stomach.

Unable to keep his eyes off of Sherlock's slender figure, he noticed how his hands were shaking slightly, and the exposed skin on his neck showed an angry looking bite mark. John was struggling against the sudden anger he felt toward Victor. How  _ dared _ he hurt Sherlock? Although, John wasn't even sure that Sherlock had been opposing the idea. In fact, he didn't really know  _ anything _ about the pair of them aside from that they had met, and that they were now apparently kissing. And the fact that Sherlock was attending a party with other living, breathing human beings. He felt jealous; jealous, because other people were now seeing how fantastic Sherlock was. Not that he didn't want Sherlock to be seen, he just wished he was the one doing the seeing.

Mary was giving him sympathetic glances in between her conversation with Mike, and she didn't seem too surprised when John decided to excuse himself and go home. He was standing just behind the wall of the corridor when he heard Victor's voice.

"Hey, baby, I don't mind kissing but I have my  _ needs _ to take care of." 

John decided he couldn't take hearing another word, so he pulled the hood of his vest up over his head and silently made his way for the exit. Before opening the front door and exiting out into the cool night, he searched his pocket and found a napkin and a pen. He searched for Sherlock's Belstaff and located it in a few seconds; it wasn't very hard to find because it stood out radically against the other clothes. Finding a pen in his other pocket, he quickly scribbled a message and snuck it into the left pocket of Sherlock's coat. 

With a heavy heart, he opened the door and left.

~~ * ~~

Sherlock had barely recovered from his very first hangover when he found himself drunk again, Victor having ensured that he had downed several shots of whiskey in the common room of the dorm where the party was held. His first taste of the liquor had burned his throat, sending him into a fit of coughing, but Victor had shoved another shot glass at his mouth as soon as he had regained his composure, and it hadn’t taken long before the alcohol went to his head and made everything seem hazy.

He was standing close to the wall, swaying back and forth as he struggled to keep himself upright, taking in his surroundings and feeling slightly uncomfortable and awkward not knowing anyone there other than Victor. Although the loss of control made him feel uneasy, he was thankful for the buzz that took the edge off and made him feel more confident. Sherlock had never been to a dorm party before, and the loudness of it all surprised him, the heavy thumping of the bass making his heart pound a little faster.

As he was scanning the room, looking for anyone familiar, trying to make observations despite his brain feeling foggy, he caught sight of a boy who made him stop glancing around. Sherlock knew he had seen those dazzling blue eyes before, but he was too dazed to remember where, and found that he didn’t even care. All he cared about, in that moment, was to be able to continue staring at that gentle smirk twisting the boy’s lips, the way his eyes squinted a little when he smiled. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze away, letting his eyes linger a little longer on the boy’s sandy brown hair, trying to ignore the blonde girl with whom he seemed to be on intimate terms.

Suddenly, his thoughts were cut short as Victor grabbed him around the waist and hauled him into the hallway, pushing him up against the wall.

It took a moment before his brain registered that Victor’s mouth was against his, sucking, and then biting down on his lower lip. The bite sent a jolt of pain through him, but everything was happening too fast, and he didn’t have time to react. Sherlock could feel Victor’s groping hands roaming over his body, his hard cock pushing against the front of Sherlock’s jeans, as Sherlock tried to break away to gasp for air, his lungs burning painfully. But Victor didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, continuing to thrust his hips against Sherlock, his tongue sweeping deep into his mouth, as Sherlock attempted to push himself away from him.

Then, just when he thought that his lungs would collapse, Victor broke away from him, his intense gaze landing on his eyes, his lips turning up into a smirk. “You okay, babe?” he asked, and Sherlock barely had time to nod before Victor added, "hey, baby, I don't mind kissing but I have my  _ needs _ to take care of."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock woke up in his bed with a thudding headache, the bright daylight streaming through the window hurting his eyes. Groaning, he forced himself to sit up, immediately regretting it as his head swam at the sudden movement. He had come home late the night before, and crashed onto the bed as soon as he had managed to wriggle out of his tight jeans.

As the dull ache in his head wasn't showing any signs of leaving, Sherlock decided that he needed a cigarette. He slipped into the first pair of pyjama bottoms his fingers landed on, and made his way to the front porch, grabbing his Belstaff coat on the way.

As he reached into his coat pocket for the pack of cigarettes, his fingers closed around an unfamiliar napkin. Puzzled, Sherlock drew it out and turned it around in his hand, examining it, and then proceeded to open its folds.

Sherlock stopped breathing when he saw the message written on it, his mind struggling to understand how a message from H had ended in his pocket, the idea of having been close to the boy without knowing it making something flutter in his stomach.

He read the message again: "You deserve better. H".  _ Better? _ Sherlock couldn't understand what H meant, not knowing what he was referring to.

Sherlock realised that H would have had to be at the party the night before to have slipped the napkin into his pocket, and he would have had to see him with Victor. But he still couldn't grasp why H would think that he deserved better. Better than Victor? Sherlock scoffed at the idea, knowing that it simply wasn't true.

(10:13) What do you mean I deserve better? SH

(10:15) And why do you even care? If you really thought that, one would think that you would at least have the decency to let me know who you are. Or do I not deserve to know your name? SH

 

The first thought that came to John's mind as he woke up and stretched was that he had done something incredibly stupid the night before. Too dazed from sleep and his pending hangover, he slowly sat up and stretched, deliberately shutting down any train of thought that came to him. Instead he focused on cataloguing any remaining injuries he had. Two of his ribs were still a little sore and purple, but most of his bruises had faded to a faint yellow. Nothing seemed to be permanent, and for that John was grateful.

He was startled from his reverie when his phone vibrated, indicating he had just received a new message. John didn't want to look at it yet, for fear of what it was going to say. His memories from last night weren't entirely complete, but he  _ did _ remember seeing Sherlock.  _ Had he been with someone? _ What had Sherlock been doing at a party? Had he found out who John was?

Dread pooled in his lower abdomen, and he closed his eyes, desperately willing the memories to return to him. He couldn't have given himself away, could he? Even in his drunken state John should have known how dangerous it was to let Sherlock know him, aside from as H. Sherlock would have the tool to destroy John in his hands, literally and figuratively. If his father found out he had been pining after another boy… John shuddered. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid, but of course he had gone and been stupid and careless.

Fearing the worst, John opened his phone and saw two new messages from Sherlock. His heart started beating uncomfortably and he could feel sweat beginning to form on his palms.

He opened the first message and suddenly the memories came back to him in a rush of conflicting emotions. He remembered how good Sherlock had looked, and how much he despised Victor. The way he had regarded Sherlock, as if he were a piece of meat instead of the brilliant person John knew he was, the words he had uttered that had made John's stomach clench uncomfortably. There was something about Victor that made him shudder. John only hoped Sherlock knew what he was doing. Leaving the note had, in hindsight, been the most dumb thing John had ever done, but it couldn't be undone now and his regret didn't make the words less true. 

Sherlock  _ did _ deserve better. 

Sherlock deserved the world. 

Somehow John didn't think that Victor was going to provide that to him.

As he read the second message his anger toward Victor was replaced with guilt. Sherlock was right, if he cared so much about Sherlock's well-being, he would have just told him who he was, walked up to him and introduced himself. But John was a coward, and now Sherlock knew he was, too.

Sherlock did deserve to know. But John couldn't do it. Not now. 

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock; he would probably trust him with his life. It was that he didn't trust himself. He knew that if he ever got close to Sherlock, he wouldn't be able to put his feelings aside anymore. John's affection would be displayed on his face, Sherlock would see, and probably want nothing to do with him.  _ He has Victor now _ said the voice in the back of his mind.  _ He doesn't need or want you. _

John hated how easy it was to work himself up to tears, and he felt pathetic for crying about something that was his fault to begin with. Slowly, John started typing out a response, knowing that words wouldn't be able to convey what he felt either way. 

(11:43) I thought you of all people would understand. H

 

The anger that flared inside Sherlock was sudden.

(11:46) Understand? Understand that instead of being with the one person who seems to like me, I should just be alone? Should I just accept my fate as a freak and a loner and continue texting some stranger who doesn't even care enough to introduce themselves? You know that I would never tell anyone your name, and still you pretend like you can't reveal it. SH

(11:48) You're not a freak, Sher... H

(11:50) Yes, thank you for that. Like you saying it changes anything. SH

 

John bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste the metallic tinge of blood.

He really had fucked up this time.

 

Groaning with frustration, Sherlock tossed his phone on the porch, his anger still fresh and hot inside him. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out the pack of cigarettes and took one out, his fingers shaking with barely controlled fury. How dared H imply that he didn’t know what was best for him, that he couldn’t take care of himself? It was infuriating. Sherlock wasn’t a child; he knew very well what he did, and did not, deserve.

Victor was being nice to him, appreciating him, making him feel wanted. And he respected Sherlock enough to show himself in public with Sherlock, unlike H who didn’t even want Sherlock to meet him, let alone know his name. If he really thought that Sherlock deserved better, he wouldn’t hide behind text messages. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sherlock tried to calm the fire burning inside him, and lit the cigarette that he had placed between his lips. He took a deep drag and let the smoke fill his lungs, releasing some of the tension in his body.

(12:03) Can I come over tonight? V

A buzz startled him out of his thoughts, and some of the anger left his body, replaced with anticipation, as he saw that it was a text message from Victor.

(12:05) Sure. SH

(12:06) Send me your address and I'll be there 5pm. V

Victor texting him was proof that he cared, proof that H was wrong about him. H could think whatever he wanted to think, but the fact remained that Victor wanted to be with him. Putting out his cigarette, he sent him a text with his address, pushing any anger that was left to the back of his mind.

(12:08) See you tonight, baby ;) V

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile a little as he read the text, excited about the prospect of a night together with Victor. He grabbed his coat, and went back inside, determined to make himself look at least somewhat presentable despite his hangover.

 

~~ * ~~

 

At five o’clock, Sherlock was pacing back and forth, his body filled to the brim with nervous energy. He kept stealing glances at the clock, his stomach twisting with tension. He knew that any minute now, the doorbell would ring, and he would be greeted by the stunning sight of Victor.

A mere five minutes later, Victor rang the doorbell and Sherlock quickly opened and let him in. Victor was dressed in blue jeans and a tank top, revealing his muscular biceps and tanned chest. His hair was styled in his usual fashion, and Sherlock felt himself regarding Victor in awe. 

"Hey, baby," Victor smiled and strode over to Sherlock and crushed their lips together, pushing Sherlock away from the door as he kicked it shut with his boot. Victor didn't stop until Sherlock felt himself hitting the edge of the kitchen table with his thighs, and Victor pushed him down flat on his back on top of the hard surface.

The table felt hard against his back, his heart hammering in his chest, as Victor pinned his arms over his head, his nails digging into his wrists. He sucked the skin on Sherlock’s neck into his mouth, and Sherlock’s head jerked to the side in surprise.

Victor bit down on his skin and lay his weight on top of Sherlock, his free hand roaming the skin underneath Sherlock's shirt. His lips moved to meet Sherlock's again, and he kissed sloppily, his breathing uneven. 

That's when Sherlock looked up into Victor's face for the first time, and he saw that his eyes were glazed over and his pupils dilated, his irises barely visible. Realisation struck.  _ Victor was... high? _

As if Victor had read his mind, he pushed off Sherlock and straightened himself, fumbling in his back pocket for a small plastic bag containing a white powder. He carefully put a small line of powder on the table and inhaled it, offering the bag to Sherlock.

"You want some, baby? I thought you and me could have some fun."

Sherlock swallowed hard when he saw the plastic bag, memories rushing back to him. He had been clean for several months now, not having touched any drugs since his accidental overdose. He had been tempted a few times, but he had managed to resist. Helping with cases at Scotland Yard, and lately H and Victor, had been great distractions for him, averting his thoughts from the craving to gain relief from his boredom-prone brain.

But having the prospect of relief so close before him, made it difficult to think clearly, temptation overpowering his judgement. Besides, he didn’t want to seem like a wimp, already feeling pathetic enough due to his lack of experience.

Before Sherlock even realised it, he had snorted up a line.

Victor grabbed the bag and put it back in his pocket, taking Sherlock by the hand and pulling him close, their lips meeting again as Victor lapped at his mouth. Releasing his lips, he leaned in and breathed in Sherlock's ear.

"Bedroom?"

Sherlock hesitated. He really wasn't ready for this, but there was no way he was going to tell Victor that. Besides, the cocaine had already started affecting his mind, his doubts becoming weaker by the minute.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock nodded, and let Victor take him to his bedroom, feeling a rush of heat spreading through his body as the drug poured through his veins. He felt nervous, but pushed the thought away, trying to convince himself that he was ready for whatever would happen next.

As they came into the room, Victor pushed him until the back of his thighs hit the edge of the bed, and his knees buckled. He fell against the bed with a thump, letting out a sharp gasp as his head hit the mattress. Straddling him, his knees on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, Victor bent over him, brushing their lips together, his tongue dipping into his mouth.

Victor's hands found their way underneath Sherlock's shirt, and they clutched at his stomach, his nails leaving trails that Sherlock was sure would be visible the next day. Nimble fingers reached for the buttons in his shirt, and soon he found himself exposed, his pale stomach and chest standing out against the black of his shirt. Victor's fingers pinched on Sherlock's hard nipples and Sherlock squirmed, his breath laboured and pulse elevated.

Sherlock yelped in surprise as Victor sat up and flipped him over, pulling his shirt off his shoulders in the process. Despite his numbed emotions, a nagging voice in the back of Sherlock's head told him that  _ this just wasn't right _ . A part of him wanted to stop what was happening, push Victor off, ask him to leave, but he did nothing. He lay silently but for the sound of his heavy breathing, and tried not to shudder as Victor started pulling off his jeans. They were quite loose, and came off without having to unbutton them or zip them down. Sherlock felt flush with embarrassment; nobody had seen him like this before, let alone naked. He wasn't sure if he was good enough, wasn't sure if he was what Victor wanted. 

Soon enough, Victor opened a condom pack with his teeth, pulling it over his length, coating himself with saliva that he spat onto his hand. Sherlock lay with eyes closed, tried not to move or think about anything in particular. He didn't really know what to expect, but he didn't expect it to  _ hurt so much _ .

His breath hitched as Victor took hold of a fistful of his hair, and pulled his head back, hard. Biting back a cry of pain, Sherlock tried to keep his erratic breathing in check, blood roaring in his ears. He wanted to tell Victor to stop, but the words just wouldn’t come out, the situation overwhelming him, rendering him incapable of speaking.

His heart racing in his chest, Sherlock made a strangled noise as Victor increased the pace, his hips pounding against him.

Tears were forming in Sherlock's eyes, but he blinked them away, determined to see this through.

He lay still, his breath coming out in sharp bursts, punctuating the slamming of Victor’s hips against him, until the man was done, and Sherlock felt him withdraw his cock from him.

He could hear Victor rolling off the condom, tying it and throwing it in Sherlock's bin, and then the sound of a zipper being pulled up. Before Victor left, he tossed Sherlock the bag with the remaining cocaine. 

"Thanks, baby," he said, and strode out of the bedroom door, slamming the front door shut behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

The summer was coming to an end, the past week or two having gone by painfully slowly. Sherlock hadn’t heard anything from H since their argument, and he had gradually begun to accept the possibility that he would never find out who the boy was, the mere thought making his chest tighten into a knot of anguish. His anger had dissipated quickly, disappointment and regret taking over, unable to shake the fact that H was one of the few people, perhaps even the only one, who genuinely seemed to care about his well-being. Or had been, Sherlock reminded himself, trying not to forget that they weren’t talking anymore.

Sherlock had spent the following week with Victor, trying not to think of what H had said, trying to ignore the shadow of doubt that constantly attempted to invade his thoughts. What if H had been right? What if he  _ did _ deserve better?

Every time Victor had come over to his house, he had left as soon as his needs were taken care of, leaving Sherlock alone and confused, warning signals sounding at the back of his mind. But he had tried to push the signals away, wanted to ignore them. He wanted to believe that Victor liked him, that he cared about him. It felt good to be wanted, good to be on the receiving end of attraction. For once in his life, he felt as if he was somewhat normal.

But it had become harder and harder to ignore the thought that maybe Victor was just using him, that  _ maybe _ H had been right. Sherlock didn’t have any experience with relationships whatsoever, uncertain if what Victor and he had even was one. And he had no idea how relationships were supposed to work. Perhaps the way Victor treated him was normal. Perhaps that was how it was supposed to be. He couldn’t know.

And that’s why he continued to invite Victor in, letting him take what he wanted, all the while trying to convince himself that it was what he deserved.

~~ * ~~

Over the last couple of weeks of the summer holidays, John had grown closer to Mary than he had expected. They were texting and talking on the phone whenever they weren’t meeting, and John’s father seemed content. There hadn’t been any more incidents, and John’s body was finally allowed to heal. Mary had come up with the brilliant idea that they would pretend to be a couple whenever they were at John’s, and John had lover her for that. He would never have suggested it himself, but he was thankful and relieved that he didn’t have to walk on eggshells in the house anymore. Mary had made his life a lot easier and he hoped he would be able to repay her someday. 

In the evenings, when Mary had gone home or when they had hung up their fourth phone call of the day, thoughts of Sherlock always came, unforbidden, and crept their way into John’s brain until he was the only thing he could think about. It was John’s fault that they didn’t talk anymore; he had been too hurt and angry the last time they had spoken, and he just didn’t have the strength to try to make amends. If Sherlock didn’t want anything to do with him, fine!

He told himself it was fine; that he was fine. 

But the thoughts came to him and refused to leave. It was as if Sherlock were an insect eating away at his insides, no medication in the world powerful enough to rid him of it. He had tried alcohol, he smoked like a chimney, and whenever he felt too overwhelmed he would pick up his razor and make incisions on his left arm. Despite the heat of summer, John always wore long sleeves. He just couldn’t take the looks he would otherwise get.

He knew Mary had seen his arm once when his sleeve had slid up, but she never said anything about it. If anything, she simply hugged him extra tight that night before she left, a sad smile on her face.

At night, he would write to Sherlock, never sending any of the messages.

(draft) I miss you. H

(draft) God damn it, Sherlock, how can you be so blind? H

(draft) I need you. H

(draft) I wish I was better, that I could be what you deserve. H

(draft) I keep thinking about kissing you. H

He deleted them all the night before school started, couldn’t bear if someone were to find them.

He dreaded going back to the classrooms, the corridors, the questions from his classmates when they saw the dark circles under his eyes. 

Dreaded seeing Sherlock.

~~ * ~~

On the last evening before school started again, Sherlock found himself fidgeting, unable to concentrate on anything, as uncomfortable thoughts kept invading his mind. He was afraid to go back to school, afraid to meet Jim and his cronies again, terrified that he wouldn’t survive another year of bullying. This time Victor would be there, Sherlock knew, but he wasn’t sure if the man wanted to be seen with someone like him at school.

Before he could continue his thought, his phone started ringing. It was Mycroft. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock picked up the phone.

“What now?”

"Sherlock," Mycroft said seriously. "That boy is never coming near you again. Are we clear?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock spat. "I haven't even met him."

"What?" Mycroft blurted, unable to mask his confusion. "You saw him  _ yesterday." _

"Wha- oh," Sherlock breathed, as realisation hit him, but he recovered quickly. "Have you been spying on me, you insufferable, arrogant, overbearing arsehole?"

"You are treading a dangerous path, brother mine," Mycroft said, suddenly sounding defeated. "Since you seem to be unable to  _ control yourself, _ certain measures must be taken."

"Measures? It's none of your business what I do with my life."

"I'm warning you, Sherlock. If I see him anywhere near you, I will have him forcibly removed."

"You have no right to do that," Sherlock barked, his voice thick with venom.

"You underestimate me, brother," Mycroft replied sourly.

"I  _ swear _ , Mycroft, if you do anything--" he snarled.

"Then what, Sherlock?" Mycroft huffed. "What will you do, that you are not already doing to yourself?"

"I  _ hate _ you," Sherlock spat out, too angry to come up with anything clever to say.

On the other end of the line, Mycroft knew he had gotten to him. Something tugged on his heart, and he lowered his voice into a soft, humming tone.

"Your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock coughed in surprise, choking on his own saliva. "What the  _ hell  _ am I supposed to say to that?"

"Nothing," Mycroft sighed. "I will be watching." 

The line went dead.

~~ * ~~

It was the morning of the first school day after the holidays and John woke up early from the light sleep he had been in. He hadn’t slept very well lately, often waking up early and falling asleep very late, so it wasn’t strange that he felt exhaustion seep through his sore muscles. With a sigh, he turned off his alarm clock and sat up, stretching until his back cracked satisfyingly. 

Walking to his wardrobe in his boxers and t-shirt, he opened it and scanned for appropriate first-day clothing. Settling for dark jeans and a light blue hoodie, he grabbed fresh underwear and socks, and headed to the bathroom to take a shower and shave. 

He regarded himself in the bathroom mirror. The circles under his eyes were much more prominent than they used to be, and his cheeks seemed strangely hollow. His gaze was tired and the exciting glimpse in his eyes had long dissipated; the perks of an abusive father and his own self-destructive behaviour.

Unable to look at himself in the mirror any longer, he started the shower and jumped in when the water was appropriately scalding. He had always liked his showers so warm that his skin reddened; it helped his muscles relax and relieved a great deal of his anxiety.

After a good twenty minutes in the shower, having shaved and all, John turned off the water and stood on his bathroom carpet to dry, droplets of water from his hair running down his chest and back, landing on the carpet and the floor around it. He dressed, brushed his teeth and headed downstairs, his hair still damp from only drying it with a towel. As he entered the kitchen, he was surprised to see his father awake and sitting by the kitchen table.

“Morning,” John mumbled quietly and was about to turn toward the refrigerator when his father spoke.

“Who is Sherlock?” he asked, through clipped teeth.

John froze in place on the floor, unable to utter a single word. He was absolutely horrified. How had his father found out about Sherlock? Had Sherlock realised who he was and decided to rat him out? Would he really do that? Why was this happening?

Time seemed frozen around John, and he turned around toward his dad finding him sitting completely still. He wondered if it was because of the shock that nothing seemed to be moving, that he was the only thing in the world unaffected by this. It was strange, but John didn’t think too much about it. 

Instead, he considered his options.

Before he could get anywhere past denial, time unfroze itself and his father stood abruptly, a piece of paper clutched in his hand. It was John’s phone bill. It contained all numbers he had contacted in the previous month.

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. _

His eyes were on fire, and John could sense the rage oozing out of his very being, setting all John’s nerves afire, making his chest constrict tightly, the panic arising strong and unbearable.

John swallowed as his father rounded the corner around the table and approached him slowly, his face red from anger, his fists clenched tight. 

“Answer me,” he growled and John took an instinctive step backwards, realising he was trapped as his back hit the refrigerator with more force than he had thought.

“No one,” John tried weakly, but the words were pushed from his chest as his father slammed him into the fridge, his hands around John’s neck, fingers pushing roughly into his carotids, his airways obstructing. John tried desperately to push his dad’s hands off of him, but only managed to scratch with his nails because his dad was so much stronger. John could feel the edges of consciousness slipping from him, but then his father let him go, followed by a punch to his right eye and his abdomen. He moved his arms up to protect his face, leaving his legs and chest open to his dad’s rage.

He grabbed John by the hair and slammed his head into the kitchen counter and John felt blood trickling down his right temple. A kick landed in his solar plexus and John’s breath was knocked out of him. He bent over slightly, clutching his stomach, desperately trying to make his lungs function again. 

“You are not my son,” his father spat as he pushed John down onto the ground, face first, and started kicking his ribs with enough force for them to break. John could hear the alarming sound of bones crunching, but he was still struggling to catch his breath. 

Somebody screamed in agony, and John didn’t realise until a moment later that it was him.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” his dad shouted and pulled John up by the back of his damp shirt. Blood had started to pool through it, and John felt himself slipping toward unconsciousness again.

His eyes opened by their own accord as he felt something sticking through his left shoulder, and he looked down, surprised to see a large kitchen knife sunk deep into his flesh. He looked up at his father and saw his own surprise and shock mirrored there, and all of a sudden his father wasn’t holding his shirt anymore, and John fell backwards onto the floor. 

The last thing he remembered before the world faded around him was the distant sound of sirens. Maybe his father had called paramedics; there was no way for John to know. 

He succumbed to the darkness.


	13. Chapter 13

The first two weeks of school had been fairly painless, considering Sherlock was used to a lot worse, having been subjected to daily name-calling and pushing in secondary school. So far, he had been spared any beatings, Jim having contented himself with only threatening Sherlock every time they passed each other in the school corridors, or whenever they happened to bump into each other in the smoking area outside the school building. Jim’s threats were believable enough to make Sherlock’s blood turn cold, and chills shoot down his spine, but he tried his best to tuck his fear away, not wanting to give away the fact that he was utterly terrified.

During the two weeks, Sherlock had been almost as alone as usual, the only difference having been that he now knew Victor. They didn’t take any same classes since Victor was one year older, but they sometimes met during breaks between classes. However, they never greeted, let alone talked to each other in the school corridors, Victor blatantly ignoring him every time there were other people around. The only times they interacted were when Victor wanted Sherlock to suck him off in the school bathroom. It hurt, but Sherlock knew that he could only blame himself, being the freak that he was. It was more than understandable that a popular guy like Victor didn’t want to be associated with someone like him, so he swallowed his pride.

During the introduction on the first day, there were a few people missing from the class. Susan, the cheating woman, and John Watson. He didn't pay it too much attention because Susan came to school the day after, but John's seat remained empty for two entire weeks. It caught his attention, because  _ nobody _ seemed to know where he was. He hadn't called in sick, and he hadn't applied for an extended holiday leave, and Sherlock heard people talk about it during breaks.

"I heard he left school to become a hippie," one girl giggled to her friend, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. As far as his deductive skills went, it was clear that something had happened to John, but nobody else seemed to share his sentiment. He got bored of speculating and forgot all about him.

His parents and Mycroft had returned from their trip to Monaco the day after school had started, and Sherlock had done his utmost to avoid them, staying for hours in the library or chemistry lab, or going over to Victor’s house after school. His parents mostly left him alone; they knew that Sherlock didn’t want them to interfere with his experiments or disturb him while he was studying, and they were considerate enough to respect his wishes. But his overbearing older brother was a real pain in the arse; monitoring Sherlock’s every move, keeping an eye on everything he did or said, and putting his giant nose where it did not belong. Sherlock had learned ways to dodge his prying eyes, but he knew that it was only matter of time before Mycroft caught Victor and him together.

Mycroft must have known something was happening behind the curtains, because whenever he was home, he refused to let Sherlock out of his sights. He never said anything, but he was always there, watching.

~~ * ~~

John had spent nearly two weeks at the hospital, out of which the first week he had spent in a medically induced coma to protect his brain from swelling. He had suffered a concussion, a minor subarachnoid haemorrhage, several broken ribs and internal bleeding, and he had undergone three different surgeries. The cut in his shoulder had been stitched up after having his damaged artery repaired, and he was on heavy pain medication, but he wasn’t complaining.

When he had woken up after a week, he had 84 missed calls from Mary, 14 from Mike and 3 from Greg. He decided to text Mary where he was, and she cried when he told her what had happened later that afternoon, but she swore not to tell anyone. She was just glad he was still alive.

He had been confused at first when the police came to ask him some questions when he had woken up, because they kept asking about what happened during the mugging. Deciding to play along with is father’s make-up story, he told them what had happened, and that the assailant had taken his wallet, but he decided not to press charges or start any further police investigation. The policemen seemed satisfied and left John alone, telling him they wished him a speedy recovery. His father was a fucking coward.

The rest of the week was spent replacing bandages, keeping his wounds clear, doing physiotherapy, doing another CT-scan to make sure the intracranial bleeding had stopped, and soon enough he was declared fit for discharge. There was still a large bruise on his right eye, remnants of choking fingers on his neck, and his ribs would have to be bandaged for another three weeks, but he could walk with the help of pain medication. The worst was the wound on his shoulder which had started to scar and itch, and John found himself touching the bandaged spot subconsciously. 

He was discharged and decided to go straight to school; there was no way in hell he was going back home, and Mary had brought with her a spare change of clothes and the promise that he could come stay with her for as long as he wanted. Thankfully the clothes she had picked out were long sleeved, which helped cover up most of his bruises, the cuts on his left arm, the stab wound, and the angry red colour of his ribs. He had also been prescribed more pain medication, which he picked up at the pharmacy before walking slowly to West Bank Academy. 

As the school building loomed in the distance, John started feeling nervous. He knew he looked like shit, and quite frankly he felt like it, and he wasn’t sure he could handle any questions right now. Worst of all, he suspected he wouldn’t be able to see Sherlock in the hallway without having a complete breakdown. Over the past few weeks, he has missed him more than he had ever missed anyone before, and it still sent stabs of pain through his heart when he thought about him. 

Walking inside the empty building, he looked for his schedule, praying that he didn’t have chemistry. It was two in the afternoon and all students were already sitting in class, which was even worse, because he would have to try to sneak in during an ongoing lecture. John found his schedule and quickly looked at it; yep, he had chemistry. Fucking excellent.

Taking a deep breath, he made his way up the stairs to the second floor on which the lab was located. It was painful on his ribs to make the climb, and after reaching the top of the stairs he had to lean against the wall for a moment, catching his breath. He was glad there was nobody in the halls right now; he looked like a pathetic mess.

He closed his eyes, and turned to rest his forehead against the cool surface of the wall. Focusing on his breathing, John tried calming his racing heart and stop the shaking of his hands. He placed his palms on the wall and took deep breaths; in through his nose, out through his mouth. It took him ten minutes before he felt he had composed himself enough to walk over to the lab. 

As he approached, he could hear his professor talking about ionic bonds through the closed door, and he hoped he would be able to sneak in unnoticed. Pressing his ear flat against the door he listened, trying to make out if there was a moment which was more appropriate to enter on, but he had no such luck. John sighed in frustration and pushed the door open without looking around in the room, knowing very well that Sherlock would be there. There was an empty chair at a laboratory station in the back, and John made his way toward it silently. The professor spoke, and John could feel everybody’s eyes on him.

“John Watson,” his professor said loudly. “Do you mind telling us where you have been for the past two weeks?”

John looked like a deer caught in the headlights as he turned around and looked around at the students that were staring at him. Some were pointing at the bruise on his eye, others were whispering to each other, and even Sherlock, who was normally not at all interested in what was going on around him, stopped his experiment to look up at John, his brows furrowed slightly. 

“Well?” the professor urged him on.

John cleared his throat. If he was going down, he might as well do it now. 

“No,” he said clearly and looked straight into the eyes of his professor. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sherlock practically freezing in his chair. He had no doubt recognised him, and everything was going to go to hell.

“No?” his professor was angry now. “This behaviour is intolerable. What do you have to say for yourself, young man?”

John stood tall, never lowering his eyes, staring intently at the professor.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said, his eyes cold and unfeeling, his exterior perfectly matching what he felt inside; he was numb, angry, and tired of everything and everyone.

“Then I suggest you leave my classroom,” the professor said icily, and John simply nodded once before walking out of the room and shutting the door behind him. He kept walking until he found himself outside the school toilets, and he walked inside, locking the door behind him. It smelled strongly of urine, but John didn’t care. He sank down to the ground, resting his back and head against the door, and hid his face in his hands.

He didn’t want to live anymore.

~~ * ~~

“No.”

The word, flat and completely devoid of emotion, made Sherlock freeze. For a moment, feeling like his brain had short-circuited, Sherlock kept staring at the boy who had spoken the word, unable to react in any way.

And then reality came rushing back to him, making him blink his eyes rapidly.

He would recognise that voice anywhere.

There was no way in hell that he was mistaken. No way that he didn’t know exactly to whom the voice belonged, the voice which he had so carefully tried to analyse, paying close attention to its various tones and inflections.

Sherlock’s heart was pounding frantically in his chest, as his mind began connecting the dots, processing the unimaginable.

John Watson was H.

H was John Watson.

H, the boy whom he had never dared hope to meet, was standing in front of him, alive and in the flesh. And he was John Watson, the stunning, handsome guy whom he had noticed in the dorm party, whom he had stolen glances at several times during chemistry classes.

Sherlock couldn’t breathe.

He felt an urge to get up, to walk to the boy, suddenly desperate to let him know how much he had missed him.

Sherlock saw the teacher’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a word, the world suddenly having stopped moving for him.

Then, all too soon, H turned to walk away. Sherlock wanted to scream at him to stop, not ready to let go of the sight in front of him, not when he had finally gotten a chance to see him. His heart plummeting to the pit of his stomach, he watched the back of the boy’s head as he walked away.

Before he realised what he was doing, Sherlock had reached for his phone and sent a message.

(14:22) It’s you. You're John Watson. SH


	14. Chapter 14

John's phone vibrated in his pocket and he already knew who it would be. 

He opened the message, his fingers trembling terribly, and he thought he was going to be sick. 

(14:24) Don't. JW

(14:25) What happened to you? SH

(14:27) Please, don't. JW

(14:28) I promise that I won't tell anyone that I know you. I promise that I'll leave you alone if that's what you want. But please, just tell me what happened. SH

(14:28) I want to help. SH

(14:30) You can't help me. JW

A tear rolled down John's cheek and landed on his phone screen, and he wiped it away absent-mindedly.

(14:32) There has to be something I can do. SH

 

Feeling desperate, Sherlock typed another text.

(14:32) I've missed you. SH

(14:34) I've missed you too. JW

 

John's fingers were shaking so hard that he was afraid he was going to drop his phone.

(14:36) Can I meet you? SH

John didn't even have to think about the answer. 

(14:37) Yes. JW

(14:38) Just say when and where, and I'll be there. SH

Despite himself, John managed a weak smile.

(14:39) I don't know, I don't care. You pick. JW

 

Sherlock was shaking so hard that he had to leave the classroom, muttering some vague excuse about not feeling well. He stopped outside the door, leaning against the wall, and with his heart racing in his chest, he took steadying breaths before typing a reply.

(14:44) Meet me in the smoking area. I'll be there in five minutes. SH

(14:45) Okay. JW

 

John got up off of the floor and unsteadily opened the door, afraid his knees were going to buckle underneath his weight. He was determined, though. Determined to finally see Sherlock and talk to him in person, no matter what it would lead to. John figured that if it went wrong, either way, he wasn't going to stick around for much longer.

He walked down the stairs and out the door, turning right to what was regarded as the smoker's area. It was just a set of benches, but most students would go there to smoke. John sat down on one of the benches and reached into his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes. With trembling fingers, he lit one and put it between his lips. He just couldn't get his damn hands to stop shaking.

Taking another drag of smoke, filling his lungs, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind him, waiting for Sherlock. He hoped he'd come.

 

Even from afar, Sherlock recognised John Watson’s tousled, sandy brown hair as it glistened in the sunlight. His pulse hammering in his throat, he started walking toward him, unaware of everything else around him, except for the boy. Sherlock had no idea what he would say to him, but he continued walking, his legs moving forward of their own accord.

When he reached John, he stopped, unable to tear his eyes away from him, his blood pounding in his ears.

“Hello.”

 

John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, his cigarette still in between his lips. He squinted a little because the sun was in his eyes, but he vaguely thought that Sherlock looked even more beautiful up close.

"Hi," he answered and motioned for Sherlock to sit down next to him. He straightened his back, leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, his hands still trembling visibly around his cigarette.

 

The sight of John, sitting on the bench and addressing him, quite literally took his breath away, and Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe, feeling almost light-headed. As he sat down beside him, he noticed a dark bruise under John’s right eye, and finger marks on his neck, his stomach lurching uncomfortably as worry crept into his thoughts. He knew immediately who had caused the bruises, anger flaring hot in his chest. He wanted to strangle the boy's father.

“H- John, you can’t go back to your house again.”

 

"I know," John smiled sadly, the intensity of Sherlock's gaze doing nothing to help his shaking hands. He threw the cigarette bud on the ground and reached into his pocket for another one, struggling to light it. John turned and regarded Sherlock, feeling a faint blush creeping across his cheeks.

"I can't believe you're here," John said, still not having managed to light his cigarette.

 

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up as John looked at him, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Noticing that the boy was struggling to light his cigarette, Sherlock reached into his own pocket, and fumbled for his lighter.

"Here, let me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, leaning forward to light John's cigarette.

 

"Thanks," John said weakly, closing his eyes again as he leaned backward, putting the cigarette in his mouth, his left hand reaching up to pull through his hair. As he lifted his hand, his sleeve fell down, revealing John's arm. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice, but Sherlock noticed everything. 

True enough, when John opened his eyes again and looked over at Sherlock, there was a frown on his face. 

John sighed.

"You have questions, I guess?"

 

Swallowing around the lump in his suddenly dry throat, Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment, weighing his next words carefully. He had noticed the unmistakably self-inflicted scars on his inner arm, but the last thing he wanted to do was make John uncomfortable.

“I’m just worried, that’s all.”

 

"It's okay, you can ask."

John pushed a little closer to Sherlock, so that their thighs were pressed against each other. The warmth that Sherlock was exuding helped ground him a little

 

The contact made Sherlock’s heart beat a little faster, and he had to take a deep breath, feeling a blush creeping up his neck. Pulling at his shirt collar which suddenly felt very tight, he lowered his eyes, and asked, hesitantly, “The scars. Why?”

 

John swallowed and averted his eyes.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "It was the only thing that worked... to distract myself when you weren't--" He stopped himself before he could say it; he didn't want Sherlock to get the wrong idea. It wasn't his fault that John had done it.

When Sherlock didn't answer, John offered him a cigarette.

He cleared his throat. 

"I just wanted to thank you, Sherlock," John looked at him from underneath his eyelashes. "For everything, you know?"

 

Sherlock was about to bring the cigarette to his lips when John's words made his hand stop in mid-air. He looked up at him, stunned. "I- for what? I don't understand," he stammered, his hand still in the air, the cigarette turning slowly to ash.

 

"For being there," John explained, slightly flustered. He had  _ never  _ before been so nervous around another person, but every single movement Sherlock made caused John's heart to flutter in his chest. He found himself lost for words more often than not. But he decided to try, for Sherlock.

"You want to know what happened, huh?"

 

Surprised, Sherlock regarded John for a moment before nodding, "I do."

 

"Alright," John said. "I am going to need more nicotine for that. Mind helping me with another?" he asked and gestured toward his useless hands.

 

"Oh. Of course," Sherlock said, and in his haste to light John's cigarette, he almost dropped his lighter, just barely catching it with his fingertips. With flushed cheeks, he awkwardly cleared his throat, and tried again, this time managing to light it.

 

"Thanks, Sher," John said and smiled warmly. He took another deep drag and released a shaky breath. 

"Okay. He... my dad, he found my telephone bill," he started, stuttering slightly. "It had specifications with which numbers I had contacted and called, that owner of that number's name, he- eh, saw yours. I don't remember all of how it happened but, yeah--I woke up a week ago, at the hospital. They told me that I had a subarachnoid bleeding, few broken ribs, a stab wound to my shoulder..." John touched his shoulder absent-mindedly as he spoke. "Major bruising, some internal bleeding, I..." he swallowed against the lump of panic that was starting to build, but he turned to look at Sherlock, reassuring himself that he was still there. 

"Want to know the worst part?"

 

Sherlock had been able to deduce most of what had happened from John's bruises, but it still shocked him to hear it out loud, and he could feel his insides twisting.

He couldn't help but feel guilty due to the fact that John's father had lost his temper because of him. "John, I want you to know that I'm so sorry. If I had known--"

"Shut up, Sherlock. This is NOT your fault."

Startled, Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, blinking his eyes.

"Sorry. Please continue."

 

"Alright," John took a deep breath. "The worst part is, that _ fucking  _ coward told the police I had been mugged. Can you believe it, mugged?!”

"Your father doesn't deserve you," Sherlock said, his words filled with anger. "That arsehole belongs in prison."

John met Sherlock's eyes and swallowed soundly. Before he could stop the words from leaving his mouth he said silently: "I blame myself."

A new wave of anger washed over Sherlock. "It's not your fault, John." He fixed his eyes on John's. "You must stop blaming yourself. You haven't done anything wrong."

 

Without thinking, John reached out his right hand and placed it lightly on Sherlock's cheek, left it there for a second, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

"Thanks, Sher. I'm trying."

 

Sherlock could only blink as John's hand touched his skin, the contact making something warm flutter in his stomach.

"Um... there's something I wanted to ask," he began, fidgeting with his fingers.

"You can ask me anything," John reassured him.

Trying to ignore the heat seeping into his cheeks, Sherlock asked, "When you said that I deserve better, did you really mean it?"

"Yes," John said, right away, without any hesitation. "Yeah, I meant it."

Sherlock's heart leaped in his chest, his blush deepening.

"Are you two--?" John began asking, hoping Sherlock would understand the meaning of his question.

"I--I don't know... Victor, he--" Sherlock swallowed, not knowing how to continue.

"He what, Sherlock?"

Avoiding John's gaze, Sherlock started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "It's nothing."

“Sherlock," John inquired with more force than he had intended. Sherlock's fidgeting was making him nervous. "Please, tell me."

Sherlock hesitated. "I think he might..." He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued, "I think he might be using me."

Not daring to open his eyes, Sherlock waited for John's reply.

"Sherlock, look at me," John urged, grabbing Sherlock's wrist in his left hand, his other hand gently touching Sherlock's chin, tilting his face in his direction. "It's okay," he said gently, noticing Sherlock's hesitation.  "I won't hurt you, just look at me." 

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"If he is using you, get rid of him."

John's touch made his heart race faster, and Sherlock prayed that he couldn't see the pulse pounding in his neck.

"It's complicated," Sherlock muttered, embarrassment burning hot and heavy inside him.

 

John released his chin and wrist, settling back against the wall, his ribs starting to ache. It was soon time for his pain medication, but he didn't want to leave just yet; not when he had finally made it this far, actually talking to Sherlock in person. He closed his eyes, letting the sun rays warm his face. He kept his eyes closed as he spoke. 

"Complicated how?"

 

"I don't know. I'm not even sure if he's using me," Sherlock replied quietly.

Sherlock was thankful that John's eyes were closed. He didn't want him to see how ashamed he felt.

 

"Just... take care of yourself, yeah?" John was biting his lip, trying to be supportive without giving away how much he already  _ hated  _ Victor's guts. If he was the one who made Sherlock happy, he would set his own opinion aside and support him.

As he stretched and opened his eyes, his ribs kindly reminded him that it _ really  _ was time for medication now, which meant that he would have to leave and go to Mary's. He winced with pain but did his best to hide it. The pills he had been prescribed made him drowsy and dizzy, and he didn't want to be at school right now.

"Sher, I'm really sorry, but I think I have to go."

"Oh, it's okay. I understand," Sherlock said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice but failing miserably. He stole a glance at John and noticed his pained expression. "Are you all right?"

 

John nodded.

"It's time for my pain meds, and I'd really rather not do them here.”

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, "of course."

John stood and turned in the direction of Mary's two-bedroom flat, and looked back around at Sherlock.

"It was nice meeting you," he said, before he started walking, leaving Sherlock sitting on the bench.


	15. Chapter 15

As Sherlock started to walk away from the school building, away from the blue-eyed boy who was making his heart stutter, he finally released the breath he had been holding, his exhalation a shaky burst of air. His skin still tingled where John had touched him, the memory of his fingertips still lingering on his chin, gentle and warm, resting on his sensitive skin with just the slightest pressure, but still managing to send a shower of sparks down his spine.

The mere thought of his shimmering blue eyes, clear and solemn but still somehow radiating warmth, made Sherlock feel breathless, his lungs aching for more air. Yes, he had seen those eyes a number of times before, in chemistry class and across the school corridors, but he had never been this close to him, never close enough to discern the golden rings encircling the blackness of his pupils, and the different shades of blue blending in his eyes. So close that he could have counted the shades if he wanted to.

And the way John had answered, without missing a beat, the one question Sherlock had asked himself repeatedly over the past few weeks, the question that had kept him up late at night. Yes, he had said, yeah, I meant it. And his voice had been so sincere, so matter-of-fact, that Sherlock had thought that his heart would burst, as it kept leaping erratically against his ribs. It had been almost painful to hear those words, his heart aching in his chest, as he finally was able to allow himself to believe that, yes, he indeed did deserve better.

The way John made him feel was different from anything he had ever experienced before. Victor made him feel useful, sure. Wanted, even. But John made him feel… safe. And cared for. And it felt so much better than being a toy that someone discarded once he had had his fun.

Meeting H,  _ John, _ for the first time had felt unreal, like a dream that would flee from him when he least expected it, and Sherlock had to keep convincing himself that he, in fact, was awake, and that John, in fact, was real.

The image of the boy wouldn’t leave his mind; the light tan of his skin, his strong shoulders and broad chest, the light pink tint of his lips; the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when a smile tugged at his lips, and the way his forehead creased when he frowned. Despite his bruises, John was beautiful. So beautiful that he literally took Sherlock’s breath away. 

Sherlock tried to push his thoughts away, tried to tuck the emotions spinning inside him out of sight. He was afraid of letting his thoughts wander, afraid of what he might discover if he allowed his mind to roam free. Sherlock knew that he had to keep his distance, to stay away. Just one wrong move, one unthinking gesture, and he would endanger the boy’s life, the image of his bruises still painfully vivid in his mind. But still, he couldn’t stop the pounding of his heart in his chest, his body not obeying his attempts to still the trembling of his limbs.

When Sherlock reached the front door of his house, he snapped out of his thoughts, his legs having carried him home of their own accord. He knew that he was home early, having skipped his last class without even realising it. He had to pause for a moment, trying to gather his composure, and noticed that he was breathing rapidly, almost hyperventilating. Desperate to get back to the safety of his room, Sherlock took one deep, steadying breath before he opened the door and burst in, rushing past his startled brother, not wanting Mycroft to notice how out of breath he was. Back in his room, Sherlock closed the door behind him, and let himself slump down to lean against it, his pulse thudding in his ears. The only thought he had in his mind at that moment was that he was in trouble. Knee-deep, no-way-of-getting-out-of-it trouble. Closing his eyes, Sherlock let his head fall back against the door, knowing deep in his heart that this would not end well.

~~ * ~~

John let himself into Mary's apartment with the spare key that Mary had had made for him. He was incredibly grateful for everything that she did for him, and he had promised himself to be on his best behaviour to show how much he appreciated everything. 

While he had been at the hospital, she had transformed her guest bedroom into John's bedroom; she had picked up as many clothes as possible and his laptop from John's house. His father hadn't been home at the time, and Mary had packed up his life in solemn silence.

John took his shoes off, placed them on the shoe rack and walked into the kitchen, grabbing himself a glass of water before walking off into his bedroom. It was strange. He had lived with his father his whole life, and now he suddenly wasn't anymore. Sighing, he placed the glass of water on the nightstand, closed the door, and sat down on the bed, fishing his medication out from the drawer. He downed two pills, tried to relax against the pillows and took out his phone.

He wasn't sure what he wanted to write to Sherlock, but he felt the overwhelming need to reassure himself that their meeting had actually happened. It had been surreal, and John had confirmed what he already knew; that he had fallen in love. The way Sherlock's grey irises bore into him made John feel as if he could see underneath his skin, see all the defects and imperfections, all his self-doubt and worthlessness. Something about it made John feel naked, undisguised. It was both maddening and exhilarating.

More than anything, John had wanted to grab Sherlock's precious face in his hands and kiss him gently, until he realized how much he was worth, but he wouldn't, couldn't, overstep his boundaries. It had been enough that he had touched his face without invitation; he hadn't been able to stop himself from reaching over, feeling Sherlock's soft skin, desperately wanting him to look at him, to make him understand how much he meant.

John could feel his pain dissipating as the painkillers were absorbed into his bloodstream and he sank back further into his pillows, drowsiness clouding at the edges of his vision. He fidgeted with his phone, but eventually decided to open his messages. 

(17:34) It happened, right? JW, previously H

He felt ridiculous.

(17:36) I understand what you mean. It felt unreal. Also, I've been meaning to ask you, what does H stand for? SH

(17:37) Hamish. John Hamish Watson. It's ridiculous, I know. JW

(17:42) I like it. Where are you going to be staying? SH

(17:43) With a friend, I don't know if you know who it is. Her name is Mary. JW

(17:45) Oh. That blonde girl? She's not your girlfriend? SH

(17:46) Yeah, and no. Gay, remember? ;) JW

Sherlock's cheeks reddened.

(17:47) Yes, I didn't forget. SH

(17:48) I didn't think you COULD forget. Your ability to remember things is uncanny. JW

(17:50) Well, I sometimes choose to delete things that are not important. SH

(17:52) Delete??? And what things aren't important? JW

(17:55) Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. I prefer to remember only things that matter to me and things that are useful. SH

(17:59) How do you do it? How can you just DELETE a memory? JW

(18:01) I just do it. My mind is my hard drive and I decide what to put in there. SH

(18:02) That's amazing. JW

(18:06) You really think so? SH

(18:08) Heck yeah, I've never met someone with such a brilliant mind. JW

(18:10) I'm flattered. SH

(18:14) Mmmm getting pretty drowsy, will probably fall asleep. Remind me tomorrow it wasn't a dream, yeah? JW

(18:16) Okay. Sleep well. SH


	16. Chapter 16

The following morning Mary and John sat together at the kitchen table, enjoying breakfast and each other's company. He had briefly told her about his meeting with Sherlock the day before, but he had kept most details to himself, wanting their moment to be private. Mary had listened, excitement glistening in her eyes, but she hadn't inquired further when John seemed hesitant to continue. Instead she had shifted the focus back on school, and all the rumours that were going around about John. Things had gotten pretty out of hand.

"Some think you're dead," Mary laughed. "Others think you finally took up on that acting career and moved to Broadway." 

"Jeez," John laughed half-heartedly. "I should talk to principal Roberts, she has no idea where I've been. And I should apologise to my chemistry professor."

Mary nodded in approval, and they continued eating together in silence, and later walked arm-in-arm to school. It felt good to have a safety-net to rely on at school too, and John made sure to thank Mary at least once every five minutes, until she told him to shut the hell up and stuck her tongue out at him. He giggled and prodded her side with a finger, and she hooked their arms together again and they continued on toward school. 

John skipped his first lecture, history, in favour of walking to the principal's office, telling her about his absence and hospital stay. She was very sympathetic and made sure to contact John's teachers to get him back on track and help him catch up with any work he had missed. John was extremely grateful and went along with the story of how he had been mugged. Things would be easier if nobody knew the truth. 

His second class was Maths, something John really liked, and after his talk with the professor Kim, she assured him that he wasn't behind in her class. Considering he had already been ahead before his absence he wouldn't have to do any extra work to keep his credits. He was very relieved with anything that would decrease his already heavy workload.

After lunch he would have chemistry. Something inside John tingled at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again; he hadn't seen him around campus or in the hallways, but he had received a text in the morning telling John it hadn't been a dream. Sherlock was a man of his words.

Deciding he wasn't very hungry, or in the mood to listen to people's gossip about him, or endure the glances of students in the corridors, he settled on going outside to smoke. When he rounded the corner to where he had met Sherlock yesterday, he noticed two figures already sitting on the bench together, smoking: Victor and Sherlock.

John hastily ducked to the right and out of their sight, but close enough to be able to hear what they were saying. He knew it really was a breach of trust to be listening in on their conversation, but there was  _ something _ about Victor that John just didn't trust. He focused on listening.

"...quite a fucking weirdo, that Watson guy," Victor said and huffed a laugh. "Looked like hell too, I bet his momma beat him or something." 

John's heart dropped to his stomach and he had to take a steadying breath to push away the building nausea.

~~ * ~~

Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach at Victor’s words, the realisation that the man sitting beside him might just be an awful human being slamming into his gut like a punch. His throat felt impossibly dry.

“I think he’s all right,” Sherlock muttered, too afraid to say what he really thought about John, and how much he actually liked him.

"What's gotten into you?" Victor teased. "Forgot your balls at home?"

“No, I--“ Sherlock stammered nervously, looking at the cigarette between his fingers, “I just think he’s okay.”

Sherlock felt an urge to get up and leave, suddenly desperate to put as much space between them as possible, but he stayed glued to the bench, not wanting to anger Victor.

He was aware that the man had a volatile temper, and the thought of setting him off unnerved him, his insides giving a protesting lurch.

Although some part of him wanted to leave Victor, to end things with him, he found himself hesitating. As twisted as it might seem, Sherlock got pleasure from the fact that Victor wanted to be with him, even if it was only because of his body. He was afraid to get back to being his old self, to feel completely alone and unwanted again.

It felt safer to just let things be as they were. Besides, Victor was his drug source, and as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he couldn’t deny that he had an addiction, no longer able to resist his craving.

~~ * ~~

John had heard enough; he wished he hadn't heard any of it in the first place. He was angry, fuming, and he still hadn't gotten his much needed dose of nicotine. Lighting a cigarette and putting it between his lips he walked out in plain sight of Victor and Sherlock, never looking at them as he strode across the courtyard. He could feel Sherlock's eyes burning into the nape of his neck, and he swore he heard Victor say "speak of the devil" but he wasn't listening anymore. As he reached the school gates, he swerved off the path to the left and sat down underneath a large and proud oak tree, resting his back against the trunk. From a distance he could still see Sherlock looking at him and he could see Victor's lips moving, no longer able to tell what he was saying. It was probably for the better, anyway. He wasn't sure if he could listen to another word uttered from his mouth and still win his battle with self-control; it was taking all his will power not to punch him straight in the face.

The bells rang, and John watched as Sherlock and Victor made their way inside, no doubt heading to their respective classes. John decided to linger a little longer, savouring the taste of tobacco on his tongue and the systemic effect of nicotine on his body. Not wanting to be late, however, he stood and made his way to chemistry. 

As he entered the classroom, backpack slung lazily across his shoulder, he regarded his seating options. There was a seat at the very front of the classroom next to Eva, a red-haired, chatty woman, one in the back, next to Leo, and one next to Sherlock. There was no way John was going to be able to survive Eva's nonsense for more than two whole minutes, and he still wanted to rip Leo's head off, so he approached Sherlock's desk warily, not sure what was acceptable. He cleared his throat to get Sherlock's attention, and motioned awkwardly toward the empty chair. 

"Do you mind?" he asked nervously.

 

Startled, Sherlock could do nothing but stare at John, the boy’s words hanging in the air between them. A question of his own popped up in his mind: Do you  _ want _ to? He wouldn’t have dared even hope that John would want to be seen with him at school, let alone sit beside him in class, but there he was, standing in front of him, waiting for his reply.

Quickly recovering, Sherlock nodded, and made room for him by pushing aside his notes on the desk.

 

"Thanks," John said softly and gave Sherlock a smirk, sitting himself down and scooting his chair a little closer to Sherlock's, ignoring the stares he was receiving; nobody ever sat next to Sherlock in class.

"This is the class I'm furthest behind in," John exclaimed tiredly as he brought his notebook out from his backpack and placed it on the desk in front of him. "And I really don't understand anything. Chemistry never was my best subject."

 

“Um…” Sherlock started, unsure whether the boy’s remark was an invitation for him to offer his help. “It’s not that hard, really. I could help you.” A blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, he hastily added, “If you want.”

 

"Really?" he asked sincerely. "That would be great, Sherlock. But only if it's no trouble. For you, I mean. I don't want to be in the way."

 

"No, not at all. It would be my pleasure," Sherlock said, offering a modest smile to reassure him.

 

"Thanks, Sherlock" John said and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for just a short moment before turning to his notebook, trying to hide the fact that he was smiling like a crazy idiot at the prospect of spending more time with Sherlock.

As the lecture went on, John found that it was next-to-impossible to focus on what was being said with Sherlock seated so close to him. He heard Sherlock's huffs when the professor said something stupid, his fast scribbling of notes whenever he deemed anything was interesting enough to note it down, the way he bit his bottom lip when he was concentrating. John studied him when he was sure Sherlock was focused enough not to notice. John felt as if he were a small, insignificant planet, orbiting around Sherlock, drawn in by his gravitational force field.

When their professor started wrapping up the lecture and finished explaining their homework, John realized that he hadn't actually listened to  _ a single word. _

~~ * ~~

Sherlock’s last class of the day was physics. It was a class that he usually skipped—he found the subject dull, hateful even, and the fact that the teacher had the most painfully monotonous voice didn’t help. But he knew that John took the same class, and after sitting next to him for almost an entire hour, his heart fluttering in his chest the whole time, he had decided to attend, the prospect of being close to John for another forty-five minutes too tempting to resist.

As he took a place in the very back of the class, John walked in, his teacher, Mr. Stevens, walking right behind him. Mr. Stevens turned his head in surprise when he spotted Sherlock.

"You fancied popping in today, huh?" he commented. "Finally found physics 'worthwhile your precious time'?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't respond, too busy trying to use his mind to will John into sitting next to  _ him _ . The classroom was still fairly empty and there were plenty of empty desks available to pick from; there was no reason John should decide to sit next to him. As Victor had expressed on numerous occasions: Sherlock just wasn't that interesting.

As if John could sense Sherlock's inner turmoil, he walked up without hesitation and leaned against the desk, Sherlock sitting on his chair to the right.

"Hi," John breathed, a smile playing on his lips. His eyes looked a little hazy and Sherlock suspected he had recently taken his painkillers, finally succumbing to his body's needs when the pain grew too overwhelming. The fingerprints on his neck had started to fade.

"Oh, hello," Sherlock replied, trying to appear nonchalant even though his heart had jumped at John's greeting.

He didn't want to seem too eager, afraid the boy would find him pathetic if he did.

"Listen..." John began, his arms crossed over his chest as he regarded Sherlock shyly. "I've been thinking..."

"Yes?" Sherlock cocked his eyebrow in question.

"About this tutoring thing," John explained and continued on quickly. "We should have some ground-rules. Like, where, when, how often. It all depends on when you want to. I don't really have any other... obligations. Not anymore, anyway. Oh, and please tell me if it bothers you or you don't want to do it. And also, please tell me to shut up now."

"Right," Sherlock said, finding himself relaxing a bit when he noticed that John was nervous too. "I would invite you to my house if it wasn't for my overbearing brother who just simply cannot mind his own business, so I suggest that we pick a table in the school library instead. As to when, I'm free most evenings. Perhaps we should start small and see how it goes. Once a week?"

Sherlock turned his head slightly to avoid looking directly at John, already regretting that he had even mentioned John coming over. John would never want to come to his house, Sherlock reminded himself, giving himself a mental kick in the shins. This was about  _ tutoring, _ nothing more, nothing less.

"Great!" John replied. "I'm sure Mary wouldn't mind if we used her apartment. We can probably be there too." John added quickly: "If that's okay."

Sherlock turned his gaze back to John, his eyes widening a little at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Oh, sure.”

John pointed toward the seat beside him, asking permission without asking, and Sherlock nodded, pulling it out for him, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

 

Physics class, as it turned out, was just as painful as chemistry, the only difference being that John understood physics relatively well. As soon as he had sat down, he felt himself being drawn towards Sherlock; he sat as close to him as he could without crossing any of Sherlock's personal boundaries, and without attracting attention. Whenever he could, he would steal glances at Sherlock through batted eyelashes, but this time he saw Sherlock  _ glancing back. _

It was hell.

When the bell rang, John hadn't written a word in his notebook, and he vaguely wondered if this would be his life now, failing both chemistry and physics because he couldn't stop shifting his focus onto Sherlock.

~~ * ~~

By the time the physics class was over, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that physics wasn’t so bad after all. Not when John Watson was sitting next to him, chuckling at his remarks and smiling at him, looking as handsome as ever in his white T-shirt and well-fitting jeans, smelling divine—

Sherlock stopped his thoughts before he went too far, aware that he was treading dangerous waters. One false move and he would drown.

His feelings terrified him, never having experienced anything like this before, never having felt so… strongly about anyone. But there was something about John that fascinated him, something that made him forget how to breathe.

"So...." John's voice broke Sherlock out of his reverie. "When are you free?"

“Yes,” Sherlock blurted out, John startling him out of his thoughts. Immediately realising that he hadn’t answered the question, he cleared his throat, lifting one hand to rub the nape of his neck. “Um… tomorrow?” He would have wanted to say that he was free right away, but the familiar itch under his skin was growing by the minute, starting to get unbearable. He needed a fix.

"Tomorrow is good," John said and stood up, scooting off his chair. "I'll see you then. I don't think we have either chemistry or physics tomorrow, but I get off at three. Meet you in the library after?"

John looked like he was on the verge of saying something more, but he changed his mind and settled for a smile instead.

“Uh, sure,” Sherlock replied, already on his feet, his mind elsewhere. “Look, I have to go.” He turned to leave the room, but stopped, and added, “See you tomorrow?” It sounded more like a question than a goodbye.

The collar of his shirt felt tight, as Sherlock rushed his way out of the classroom toward the bathroom, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Not caring if he bumped into someone, he dashed across the corridor, keeping his head low. He didn’t want Jim, Anderson, or Leo--or anyone--to see him, not now. Not when all he needed was to get to the bathroom and get some relief. And quickly.

As he reached the bathroom, he used his body weight to push the door open, entered one of the stalls, and sat down on the lid. With trembling fingers, he fumbled through his backpack until his fingers closed around a small plastic bag, and he pulled it out, his movements frantic.

He prepared a line, and without thinking twice, inhaled it, some of the tension immediately leaving his body. Sniffing, he leaned back, letting his arms hang limply at his sides, and waited, praying for the rush to come fast.

As he felt a warmth starting to spread through his body, he sighed and let himself relax, his mind drifting away as he succumbed to the drug.


	17. Chapter 17

The following day seemed to drag on forever, and John just couldn't wait until the bells rang at three so he could  _ finally _ go to the library and meet Sherlock. He had carefully broached the subject with Mary over dinner last night and she had practically jumped out of her chair and squealed excitedly, but John had assured her there was nothing to be excited about. Yes, he and Sherlock were getting along, and yes, it was absolutely amazing to finally be able to talk to him in person, but he suspected that friendship was all they were ever going to achieve. Besides, as John reminded Mary, Sherlock still had  _ Victor, _ although John really couldn't understand what Sherlock saw in him; he was rude, seemed to ignore Sherlock in the hallways at school, and Sherlock had admitted to thinking he was being used. He shuddered at the memory, not wanting to imagine what Sherlock had meant when he said it. He had seemed serious, though, and the hatred John felt for Victor kept being fuelled by the things he said and did.

When the bells rang, John practically sprinted from the classroom into the library and found a table in a secluded corner in the back, texting Sherlock where he was. He knew Sherlock wouldn't be off for another thirty minutes so he tried busying himself with home-work, pushing all thoughts of brown curls out of his mind. John most certainly did not think about the way those fine strands of hair would feel between his fingers, and he  _ absolutely _ didn't have to groan in frustration at his inability to concentrate on anything for literally more than a few seconds. 

His mind was full of Sherlock.

Lost in thought, John was startled when he heard the low, baritone octaves of Sherlock's voice from behind him. 

"Hello, John," he said, and John had to remember that he also had to breathe to survive as a human being.

"Hey, Sher," he murmured and kicked the chair next to him out with his foot, motioning for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock took the seat beside John, trying not to stare at the broad shoulders that were taut under the thin fabric of his shirt. Saying nothing, he reached into his backpack and placed his chemistry book on the table. “So…” he began, gesturing toward the book, “where do you want to start?”

"Well, for starters I'm not sure I understood the van der Waals force. I still don't understand the difference between covalent and ionic bonds." John laughed nervously. "This is probably completely stupid to you, but I just haven't been able to wrap my head around it."

"Ah, that's easy!" Sherlock exclaimed, but when he noticed the startled expression on John's face, he added, "Don't worry, you're not the only student who struggles with it."

And soon Sherlock was back in his own element, explaining all he knew about chemical bonds, from the history of chemical bonding theory to the definitions of the different kinds, pausing only to quiz John to make sure he had understood.

 

An hour and a half had passed and John had hardly noticed the time passing, too engulfed in staring at Sherlock's mouth as he spoke, completely focused on the information he was explaining. John was hooked.

When Sherlock had spoken for fifteen minutes without pause, John just stared at him in awe, amazed at all the little details he remembered. To his surprise, John found that he had remembered some things too and that some things had actually started making sense. 

"You're brilliant, you know that, right?" John had to ask him. "I don't know how to thank you enough."

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. For a moment, he stayed silent, blinking at John. "Do you really think so?"

"Absolutely." John smiled sadly at Sherlock's confused expression. "Don't people tell you that?"

Sherlock chuckled, shifting his gaze away. "No, they really do not." Then he added, "They usually just tell me to piss off."

"They're idiots," John said and put his hand on Sherlock's lower arm that was resting on his notebook.

Sherlock flinched unintentionally at his touch, the sudden contact making his heart jump. Swallowing audibly, he didn’t dare move lest John take his hand away, his skin burning under his fingertips. He was no longer able to deny what he felt. He didn’t want John to stop touching him. He wanted to feel John’s skin against his, his hands all over him.

“That’s—” Sherlock started, but his words were cut off by an all-too-familiar voice.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” 

Sherlock’s back went rigid, and he pulled his hand away, his heart plummeting like a heavy weight into the pit of his stomach.

John narrowed his eyes instinctively, glaring at Victor fiercely.

"Never took you for a charity project, Watson. That's got to be what going on here. Sherlock feels bad because nobody loves you. Boo-hoo, Watson."

Victor smiled coldly toward John who was gripping into the seat of his chair tightly, his knuckles white with tension. 

"Come, Sherlock. I need a fix. You can 'hang' with your freaky friend later."

 

Sherlock felt his stomach seize.

No.  _ Nonononono. _

Victor’s words hanging in the air, he cast a panicked glance at John, hoping that somehow he hadn’t heard, but the disbelief and shock on John’s face told that he hadn’t missed a word.

"Come on, baby. I haven't got all day," Victor said exasperatedly, completely oblivious to what was transpiring between John and Sherlock. 

Wordlessly Sherlock stood and collected his things, risking one last glance at John before turning on his heels, stalking after Victor as he stormed down the corridor.

 

John remained behind, frozen in place. He didn't even think about the demeaning things Victor had said about him. A fix? They were doing drugs together? Not that John had any right to judge with the way he drank when he got the chance, but he just couldn't believe that Sherlock would destroy himself like that, let his mind deteriorate with substance abuse.

Victor was all kinds of bad news and John swore to himself that he would punch him in the face, next chance he got. 

John only hoped Sherlock would realize how fantastic he was, before it was too late. Before irreversible damage was done. Before John was brave enough to show exactly how he felt about Sherlock, putting himself out there, leaving his heart at Sherlock's mercy. God knew he couldn't take any more setbacks; it was why he was so scared to do something that would make Sherlock leave. It was selfish to rely so much on another human being, but he was so far down in the dirt that he didn't care. It was either this or offing himself. John didn't know what to do, but he had to make sure Sherlock was okay.

(16:43) Are you okay, Sher? I'm not angry JW

 

Sherlock was shaking.

He barely registered what Victor was saying to him, panic rising in his throat, every hope that he hadn’t dared to admit to himself slipping away from him.

He knew that John would want nothing to do with him now. Not when he realised that Sherlock wasn’t only a freak, but also an addict. He had ruined everything.

A buzz from his phone made him jump, and he almost dropped it in his haste to open the text, terrified to find out what it said, but at the same time wanting to just get it over with. If this was the last he’d hear from John, he’d rather rip the plaster off quickly.

The text stopped his racing thoughts. Stunned, he read it once, twice, thrice, unable to fathom that John wasn’t angry.

(16:45) You’re not? SH

(16:47) Okay, I am a little angry. Not at you though. JW

(16:49) John, what Victor said, it isn't true. I don't feel sorry for you. SH

(16:50) I am not helping you because I feel sorry for you. I do it because I want to. SH

(16:51) It is kind of true though, Sherlock. JW

(16:52) What do you mean? SH

(16:54) I am a charity case, nor even my own father loves me, I wouldn't put it past you if you stuck around this long out of pity. JW

(17:00) John, that is not true. I don't pity you. You have to believe me. SH

(17:02) I'm a mess, in case you haven't noticed. And I don't see that changing for a long time. You'd do yourself a favour. JW

John was starting to panic, still sitting in the library, working himself into a frenzy.

(17:03) I don't mind. I'm a mess, too. John, I don't have any friends, I'm always alone, you know that. Do you really think that I would be with you just out of pity? SH

(17:05) Sherlock, why are you with him? JW

(17:06) What could you possibly see in him? JW

 

"What's gotten into you?" Victor asked, as Sherlock kept frantically tapping at the phone screen.

He lifted his eyes quickly, just blinking at Victor, before he blurted out, "I- I have to go."

He needed to get out. He needed air.

(17:08) Like I said, it's complicated. SH

"No, I'm not done with you," Victor said and pulled Sherlock back by the back of his shirt. 

(17:09) It always is with you, isn't it? JW

Alarmed, Sherlock stared at Victor, momentarily forgetting his phone.

"I told you," Victor spat, "that I'm not finished with you." 

Victor dragged Sherlock by the hair into the men's room and into the closest stall. Sherlock closed his eyes and drifted off into his mind palace, letting Victor have his way yet again.

 

(19:32) This is how it has to be. I don't want to anger him. SH

(19:34) What? JW

John felt the blood in his veins grow hot and sizzling, an anger arising inside him that he hadn't experienced on many previous occasions. He distantly wondered if this was how his father felt toward him and that it was why he couldn't control himself.

(19:36) It's just that he sometimes gets a bit... rough. SH

(19:37) Rough how? JW

John clenched his jaw hard, clenching and releasing his fists.

 

Swallowing hard, Sherlock stared at the screen, not knowing if he should tell John about Victor or not.

(19:45) When he wants something, he takes it. Even if I say no. SH

Closing his eyes, Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, and pressed send.

 

John was on his way to Mary's, but stopped dead in his tracks and dialled Sherlock's number.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered, fighting the lump in his throat.

"He does  _ what, _ did you say?" John growled, aware how angry he sounded. But it was the truth; he had never before felt this pure, unadulterated hatred toward another human being, if Victor could even qualify as that.

"Oh, it's nothing," Sherlock muttered, his voice embarrassingly weak.

“Sherlock," John warned. "Has he hurt you?"

"No, he--" he began, but paused. "Yes." His voice was barely audible.

"I am going to murder him," John said, his voice ice cold but his insides on fire. "He will never put his hands on you again." 

"John, you don't have to... it's fine. I'm fine."

"No, Sherlock, this is NOT fine. I don't want him anywhere near you."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm afraid he won't leave me alone."

The defeated tone in Sherlock's voice made John's heart ache. 

"Then I'm not letting you out of my sight," he said softly, no traces of anger left.

"Why are you so..." Sherlock's voice trailed off. "You're so kind to me. I have done nothing to deserve it."

"You have done more for me than you realise, Sher," he admitted. "And you shouldn't have to do  _ anything _ to earn someone's kindness. Then they are not a very good person."

Sherlock chuckled weakly. "I suppose you're right... Thank you, John."

John listened to Sherlock's breathing over the line, and desperately wished he could pull him close and just hold him.

"So, will you let me help?" he pleaded.

“If you really want to," Sherlock said, and then added, "and if it's not too much trouble."

"It's not," John assured him gently. "Meet me at the school gates before your first class?"

"Okay." Sherlock's heart gave a little leap. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. So, see you tomorrow?"

"See you."


	18. Chapter 18

It was ten minutes before eight when Sherlock arrived at the school gates, his heart pounding thunderously in his chest. He had spent the whole morning worrying, unable to do anything more than keep glancing at the clock, dread growing inside him as the minutes went by.

He was afraid that, despite having promised, John wouldn’t come, afraid that he had changed his mind now that he had had time to think. That the boy had realised that Sherlock simply wasn’t worth it. He knew that it was his own fault that Victor treated him like he did; Sherlock had let the man into his life, let him take what he wanted. It was he who had to take responsibility for his actions, not John. Surely John had realised that by now, Sherlock thought. 

His anxiety constricting his throat, Sherlock looked at his phone again. Eight before eight. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, swallowing through his tightening throat. He felt so pathetic standing there alone, getting more and more certain that John wouldn’t come, feeling like everyone who walked past him could see that he had been stood up.

It hurt, Sherlock couldn’t deny that, but he knew that he had no right to blame John for having more important things to worry about than Sherlock’s petty problems.

 

Just then, John rounded the corner, a cigarette in between his fingers. He hadn't slept at all last night and the shadows underneath his eyes were prominent, his eyes bloodshot. He had tried desperately to shake his anger off, get some rest, but he only managed to rile himself up more.

John wasn't sure how he was going to react if he spotted Victor in the corridor, but he knew he wouldn't be able to control himself any longer, not after what Sherlock had told him. Nobody hurt Sherlock like that and got away with it. 

He raised his gaze from the ground and looked up, spotting a fidgeting Sherlock immediately. John waved when he saw that Sherlock had spotted him, and together they walked into the school building in silence. John insisted on following him to and from his classes, and throughout the day they found themselves in the smoking corner several times, talking about school subjects, never breaching the subject of Victor. If John sat extra close throughout the day, Sherlock didn't say anything about it, grateful for the company.

The two of them had begun attracting attention, and John could hear the whispering behind his back, but Sherlock didn't seem to care so neither did he.

Not until...

"Sherlock, why are you still hanging with this pathetic loser?" Victor said behind them as they strode together to Sherlock's next class, and John turned around abruptly.

Victor was standing against a locker, his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. Sherlock turned around hesitantly. 

"Come on Sherlock, we have business," he waved and started approaching Sherlock.

He didn't get more than a step or two before John was on him. Despite the radiating pain in his ribs, John pushed him violently into the lockers and landed a right hook in the middle of his face, the sound of bones being crushed spurring John on. 

"Hey, what the hell--" Victor started, his hands coming up to stop the blood from running out of his broken nose, but he was interrupted by John pushing him against the locker, holding him in place, one hand clutching into his shirt on either side. 

"Stay away from Sherlock," John spat, giving one last shove for good measure, before leaving, dragging a very stunned Sherlock with him by his elbow.

 

The fact that John had shown up had surprised Sherlock, but that surprise had been nothing compared to how surprised he had been when John had, seemingly without any hesitation, punched Victor straight in the face. 

More than anything he felt perplexed; unable to understand why someone would go to such lengths simply to defend him, risking getting expelled, and risking becoming the target of Victor's anger.

But he also felt an overwhelming thankfulness that John had done what he never would have dared to do himself. He would never have had the courage to stand up against Victor, not alone. But somehow, he felt stronger with John by his side, even though it went against all his previous beliefs about how alone was what he had, how alone protected him.

Staying alone had been his way of protecting himself, and the fact that John was slowly working on breaking down the walls that he had built around himself, terrified him. Sherlock was afraid of laying himself so bare before him, afraid that if he let his guard down, John would eventually leave. The mere thought made his heart ache.

But every time he caught John smiling at him, his blue eyes radiating warmth, Sherlock felt it was worth the risk. That John Watson was worth risking his heart for.

 

"Sherlock?" John said, loudly, and Sherlock was brought back from his thoughts. John had apparently said his name a few times.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek. 

They were in an empty bathroom, the door locked behind them to allow some privacy.

The touch made Sherlock's skin burn, heat rushing through his body, warming him all the way down to his fingertips.

"Yes," he answered, his voice just a breathless whisper, "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" John's fingers stroked across Sherlock's cheek, but then he lowered his hand, realising what he was doing.

The loss of John's fingers on his skin made his heart sink, but he bit his lip not to give away his disappointment. "I'm sure."

Sherlock swallowed. "About earlier," he began, gesturing vaguely in the air, "what you did. That was really--thank you."

"It's okay, you don't need to thank me," John said. "We do need to talk, though."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrow in question.

"About your... about the drugs."

Feeling as if all the air had left his lungs, Sherlock lowered his eyes, too ashamed to look at John. "What about them?" he muttered.

"How--what do you take?"

"Oh, nothing much. Mostly cocaine."

"Nothing much?!" John exclaimed, slightly outraged. "Sherlock... Look, can you... can you stop? Taking it, I mean, you--you'll destroy yourself."

"I have it under control," Sherlock snapped, his words coming out more harshly than he had intended.

John took a step forward and took Sherlock's face in his hands, turning his head harshly toward him.

"Your pupils are huge, your eyes are glazed over. You do  _ not _ have it under control."

John released his face and walked to the door, blocking it with his body, preventing Sherlock from attempting to escape.

"You're one to talk," he spat out, anger spiking inside him.

John visibly flinched, but was determined not to let Sherlock's outburst stop him.

"I know," John said calmly. "I'm hardly a role model. I can destroy myself without hesitation, but I can't let you do the same."

"I can take care of myself," Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Sherlock," John mimicked Sherlock's stance. "I'm not leaving this room until you let me help."

He made an annoyed voice in the back of his throat. "I don't need _ help _ . I can stop whenever I want."

"Sherlock," John said again, taking a step closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“I'm not taking no for an answer."

Sherlock didn't answer. He was starting to feel fidgety.

"Sherlock."

John took another step toward him.

He lifted his eyes and froze, suddenly aware of just how close John was to him.

"Please?" John was close now, so close he could smell Sherlock's cologne.

That word formed so softly, so gently on John's lips that Sherlock stopped breathing as if afraid that if he did so much as blink, the moment would end, escaping beyond the reach of his fingers.

_ Please _ . It was more pleading than demanding as if John was begging for a favour, asking if Sherlock could do just this one thing for him.

And Sherlock realised that, despite himself, he wanted so say yes. To say: Yes, all right, I'll do it. For you.

John was so close now that if he took one more step, just one more tiny move forward, Sherlock was certain that he would feel his breaths on his skin, warm puffs of air as his chest rose and fell under his dark grey T-shirt.

"Um..." he breathed.

"Say yes," John whispered, barely audible over the sound of his heart beating frantically.

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled, the word leaving his mouth before he even realised he had said it.

"Yeah?" John breathed, his eyes locked on Sherlock's.

Sherlock swallowed with an audible gulp, his throat suddenly feeling parched. He could feel the sound of John’s exhalations, making it easy to imagine the warmth of them on his skin, tickling the curve of his lip.

“Yes,” he repeated, but there was a hint of hesitation in his voice.

"Okay," John said, and the spell was broken. He took a step backward, almost as if being pulled by an invisible force, and Sherlock blinked a few times. "How--will you have withdrawals?"

Sherlock almost shivered, suddenly feeling cold as John was out of his reach again and the moment was broken. He quickly sobered up. “For a few days, yes. Maybe a week.”

“Do you--can you handle it? And please, be honest."

"Honestly?" Sherlock smiled weakly, "I don't know. I've gone through withdrawals before, but I was in rehab then."

"Oh, Sherlock," John said sadly. "I have an idea--not sure if you're going to like it, or be okay with it--I... But maybe you can stay with me? U-until you don't have withdrawals, I-I mean. I have a sofa in my bedroom, I'll crash on it, you could take the bed..."

“Really? You would do that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I would. I mean, I would have to clear it with Mary, but I'm sure she doesn't mind."

“That's... um... thank you. That way I could avoid my brother finding out, too."

"Okay," John smiled and felt himself relax, moving enough so that Sherlock could leave now, if he wanted to. "I will ask Mary, I'll know by the end of your next class."

John opened his phone and sent a message to Mary, inwardly rolling his eyes. Knowing Mary, she would probably insist Sherlock  _ never leave _ his bedroom. But he wasn't about to tell Sherlock that.

In the silence that followed, Sherlock felt awkward. "We should- I should probably go," he said, gesturing toward the door with his hand.

"Alright," John said and smiled warmly. "I'll see you after class."

Nodding slightly, Sherlock offered a little smile and exited the bathroom. He could already feel the withdrawal setting in.


	19. Chapter 19

John took the unintelligible squealing as a yes from Mary, and he rolled his eyes at her affectionately.

"It's not what you think," he assured her, but she wasn't listening, already going into intricate detail on how she was going to  _ leave the apartment _ to give them some  _ alone time. _ John felt himself blushing but laughed nonetheless. He could take a little embarrassment.

The school day went on without further incident. Victor was nowhere to be seen, and John was thankful for that, but he still insisted on walking Sherlock to and from his classes. By the end of the day John was sure Sherlock was going to be sick of him looming around him, but he hadn't seemed to mind so far.

When the bells rang, Sherlock and John met outside the gates. Sherlock had to go home to pick up some clothes, toiletries and books, and John told him the address and went on his way. He was nervous, so nervous he thought he might implode into nothingness.

 

Sherlock felt tense and on edge. He was coming down from a high, and the fact that he was standing outside Mary’s apartment door, about to see John, didn’t help relax his jittery nerves. He already regretted having said yes, both to quitting using drugs and to staying over at Mary’s, afraid that it would be the quickest way to make John hate him. He knew himself well enough to know that he couldn’t control his moods when his body was getting rid of drugs, swinging between angry and miserable, exhausted and distressed.

But still, he found himself standing outside the door, ready to knock, some part of him longing to be close to John.

Sucking in a determined breath, Sherlock lifted his hand and knocked on the door.

"Hey, Sherlock," John said as he opened the door. "I wasn't sure if you were going to come. Here, come in, let me show you around.”

Sherlock stepped through the door, and as he followed John, he started scanning around the apartment to make observations, deducing that Mary was a lesbian with an absent father, that she preferred dogs over cats, and that she loved John dearly.

"Make yourself comfortable," John said and motioned with his hand around the open plan living room and kitchen. "Bathroom is that way," John pointed to a door to the left. "And my room's this way."

John walked over to a closed door in the far end of the living room and opened it, letting Sherlock inside.

"This is really... nice," Sherlock said, just to say something as he was looking around the room.

John started giggling.

"It's okay, Sherlock, it's not huge. But at least I have somewhere to live."

John pushed ahead of Sherlock and threw himself down onto the sofa, his face buried into the pillow. 

"Bed's yours," he said but the sound was muffled.

"I can take the sofa," Sherlock said as he fidgeted, trying to ignore the crawling sensation under his skin.

"I made you do this. Take the damn bed."

Startled, Sherlock momentarily stopped fidgeting, before replying, a smile playing on his lips, "I suppose that's only fair."

John sighed into his pillow before turning his head to look at Sherlock.

"So, what do you want to do? What do you do to distract yourself normally?"

“Well," Sherlock started, dragging out the word. His first thought was that texting John had been a good distraction, but he knew that he obviously couldn't say that. "I work on cases, do experiments, things like that. But we could do something else."

"Well, I haven't committed any murders, and I don't have anything to experiment with. But, have you seen Shrek?"

"Shrek?!" he blurted out. "What is that?"

"Are you serious? You've never heard of Shrek?" John started in a fit of laughter.

"What is so funny?" Sherlock pouted at first, but couldn't help the laugh that escaped his mouth, John's giggling making him smile.

"You are,” John was still giggling. "You are the most ridiculous person ever. Come on, let me show you."

John got up off the sofa and walked out into the living room, dragging Sherlock along by the elbow and pushing him down to sit on the sofa. He then rummaged through Mary's TV-cabinet, exclaiming 'aha!' when he found the DVD he was looking for. He opened the case and put the disk into the DVD player and turned the TV on, grabbing the remote and throwing himself down next to Sherlock on the sofa. 

"Okay, so, there are ogres and talking donkeys, you'll see, it's amazing."

He turned the movie on and relaxed into the backrest, drawing his knees up on the sofa and resting his head on them, his arms wrapped around his legs, his left thigh and side pressed against Sherlock.

 

As the movie played, Sherlock sat rigid, unable to concentrate. The only thing Sherlock was aware of was the warmth of John's body, pressed snugly against his side. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw that the boy seemed relaxed, his eyes fixed on the screen. Sherlock swallowed hard. John probably didn't even notice that their bodies were touching, he thought, and here he was, nervous as a teenage boy on his first date, too afraid to move an inch.

Willing his pounding heart to calm down, he tried to focus on his breathing, praying that John wouldn't ask any questions about the movie.

And as if he wasn't jittery enough already, the withdrawal symptoms had started to creep in, and he could feel small pearls of sweat gather on his forehead. Very aware of how close he was to John, he tried not to start fidgeting, not wanting him to notice how restless he felt.

 

Sensing Sherlock's tension, John turned toward him.

"You don't have to hide that you're not okay," he said gently, looking at Sherlock's solemn face. "If you want to do something else, just tell me."

"Oh, I'm okay. I'm fine," he blurted out.

"Sherlock," John said sternly, looking at Sherlock's face, seeing all the tension in it. "Please. You don't have to pretend for me."

John propped himself up properly, breaking their body contact, and walked into his bedroom. He came back with a pillow. 

He sat down again, this time in the far end of the three-seater and placed the pillow on his lap. Sherlock regarded him in silence, confusion clear in his face.

"Come on then," John said softly, gesturing for him to lie his head down on the pillow.

 

"Uh..." Sherlock began, his eyes flicking back and forth between the pillow and John, vaguely registering the encouraging look on his face, until his gaze landed on the blue-and-white striped pillowcase. He could feel a trickle of sweat running down his forehead, his hair clinging to his damp skin as he stared at the pillow as if it were some alien object he had never seen, an object whose function he could not even begin to fathom. It took his brain a second to put two and two together, but when the realisation hit him, his eyes widened, and he barely managed to stop himself from letting out a surprised oh.

Sherlock swallowed hard, his mind filling with questions. He was struggling to understand why John would want him to rest his head in his lap and voluntarily be in such an intimate position with him.

Was he just being nice? Was it just simple goodwill, something normal people offered each other during times of discomfort? Something he had no experience of.

Or was he just pitying him? The thought made his stomach lurch, and he pushed it away, not wanting to think of the possibility that John was helping him out of pity.

His shirt sticking to his back with sweat, Sherlock shifted his eyes back to John, aware that he had to say something. The smile that greeted him made his heart jump. John was looking at him expectantly, the corners of his lips curved upwards ever so gently. What if...? 

No, Sherlock thought, suppressing the thought as soon as it surfaced. 

Panic starting to rise in his throat, he quickly got up on his feet, desperate to escape the situation. "I--I need to use the bathroom."

 

John watched in confusion as Sherlock bolted toward the bathroom, the door shutting behind him forcefully. He blinked a few times, an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. Had he crossed a line?

John stood and walked over to the bathroom door, hesitation in his steps, and knocked lightly.

"Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock stood bent over the bathroom sink, splashing some cold water onto his face. He heard John calling him, his voice thick with worry.

Leaning onto the sink, both hands gripping its edge, he lifted his head and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked flushed, almost frightened, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.

_ Oh, for God's sake. _ He was being pathetic.

"Just a second," he shouted back in a strained voice, closing his eyes.

"Talk to me, Sherlock," John said, his palms resting against the closed door. He wasn't sure if Sherlock had locked it, but he didn't want to cross yet another line.

 

Sherlock took one last deep, steadying breath before cracking the door open.

 

John's palms disconnected with the door surface as it swung open, and he staggered to regain his balance, nearly knocking into a wide-eyed Sherlock. 

"Hi," John said awkwardly when he had steadied himself. "What's going on, Sher? Talk to me."

"Oh, nothing," Sherlock mumbled, waving his hand vaguely in the air, "it's just... withdrawal."

"Come," John said and dragged Sherlock out of the bathroom by the hand, and made him sit back down on the sofa. John then sat cross-legged, facing him. 

"How do you feel?"

The knot in his throat loosening, Sherlock swallowed. "I'm fine, just a bit shaky."

"Okay," John said, nodding. "Do you want to try this again?" John motioned toward the general situation with the movie and the pillow. "Don't think."

"Okay," Sherlock heard himself saying, but made no move toward John.

"Alright," John said and smiled. He settled back against the sofa and picked up the pillow from the floor and put it back on his lap. Noting Sherlock's lack of movements, he turned and pulled him down, laying his head on the pillow, unpausing the movie. John hesitated a little before putting his right hand in Sherlock's hair, feeling through the soft curls.

"This okay?" John asked, his hands going still. He wanted to make sure Sherlock could relax as much as possible.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, the scent of John overwhelming him--the smell of newly washed cotton with a touch of lavender soap and cologne and something unique that he could only label as John.

His eyes fluttered closed as John's fingers ran through his hair, setting off tingles along his scalp.

 

John smiled as he looked down at the dark mop of hair on his lap, his fingers running softly on his scalp, massaging gently. The dark locks of hair were so soft between his fingers, and John had to stop himself from leaning down and smelling it.

 

Sherlock could feel his heart rate slowing down and his muscles relaxing, as John continued to gently brush his fingers through his curls, his fingertips grazing his scalp, the warmth seeping through the pillow making him feel sleepy.

 

John continued his ministrations until long after the movie was over, listening to Sherlock's slow breathing. He didn't want Sherlock to wake up; he had fallen asleep sometime during the walk with Fiona from the tower, and John had ended up spending most of the time looking down at his calm face. 

Sherlock looked a lot younger when he was asleep, more vulnerable. The usual frown lines in his face weren't there anymore and John thought he had never seen anything more beautiful.

 

Half an hour after the movie had finished, he gently nudged Sherlock, waking him up gently. 

"Hey, Sher. Gotta get you to bed,” he murmured quietly.

Sherlock woke up with a start. "Wha-" he sputtered, disoriented, and then, slowly regaining his composure, muttered in an embarrassed tone, "Oh, of course. Sorry. I must have dozed off."

"That's quite alright,” John reassured him. "But your neck is going to be sore tomorrow if you sleep like that all night."

Sherlock got up from the sofa, standing awkwardly beside it, brushing non-existent crumbs off his jeans, waiting for John to lead the way.

"Come," John said as he stood, and walked ahead of Sherlock into his bedroom. John opened his drawer and scouted for a T-shirt to sleep in, and he told Sherlock to get comfortable on the bed. He went into the bathroom and got ready, leaving Sherlock to get some privacy, and then walked back, letting Sherlock use the bathroom. John settled into the sofa, a pillow against one headrest, and draped a blanket over his body. He decided to sleep in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, and he lay on his back listening for the approaching footsteps of Sherlock.

Wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms, Sherlock quickly slipped under the covers, feeling self-conscious. He felt nervous as he tried to settle comfortably in the bed, but his tiredness took the edge off his anxiety, and soon he found himself drifting off into sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

The first thing John heard was the sound of footsteps pounding against concrete flooring, the pace fast and hard. John couldn't place where the sound was coming from. It had to be nearby though, because the sound was echoing in his ears, making his brain hurt with electric energy. 

John's heart was pounding and his breaths were coming in harsh bursts. As he opened his eyes, he saw his legs moving of their own accord, and he realised that the sounds he had heard earlier were those of his own feet. He was running and running, but he couldn't understand _ why _ .

Somewhere behind him he heard another set of feet approaching, and they were moving faster and faster; whatever was chasing him would catch up soon.

John felt his airways constrict but he kept running, ignoring the burning sensation in his lungs. Sweat was running down his forehead and chest, and he felt his hands tremble.

It was too dark to see anything, and suddenly John tripped on something and the air was knocked out of his lungs. His chest hurt, his ribs still not fully healed. 

Before he knew what was happening, he felt himself being jerked around and straddled. 

It was Victor. 

And he was furious.

"You little fucking pathetic freak," he roared. "How  _ dare _ you take Sherlock from me?"

A punch landed in his face and his hands were locked behind his back; he couldn't move. 

John tried to wriggle free but he was trapped, and soon Victor's hands were on his neck, pushing down hard. But Victor had been replaced with his father, and his father had a knife raised above his head. 

He stabbed down toward John's heart and--

 

John awoke with a start, his body jolting into movement and his lungs screaming for air. He bolted upright and fell off the couch, landing on his ribs with a painful grunt. Remaining on the floor, he tried desperately to catch his breath, unaware that Sherlock was in the room with him.

 

Suddenly, Sherlock was jolted awake by a loud thump, followed by a grunt. Blinking rapidly, trying to adjust to the darkness, he looked around the room, trying to locate the source of the sound. As he realised that John was lying on the floor, he threw off the blanket and jumped up, rushing to the boy's side.

"John! Are you all right?" he asked, alarmed.

"Sh-lock?" John asked, his voice raspy, his eyes still mirroring the lingering panic.

Placing his hand gently on his shoulder, Sherlock said softly, "Yes, it's me, I'm here. You're safe."

"Shit. Fuck," John grunted into his hands, covering his face with both palms. He was still struggling to catch his breath and tears were still threatening to spill over. John refused to be  _ that  _ pathetic in front of Sherlock, so he bit down on his inner cheek hard enough to taste blood, trying to compose himself.

"Sorry, Sher. G-go back to sleep."

"No apology needed," Sherlock said gently, staying put, his hand still on John's shoulder. "John, look at me. It's all right."

Closing his eyes, John fought against the oncoming storm of emotions. He was scared, still panicked, flustered by Sherlock's touch, and he hated being so  _ god damn _ weak. It was just a dream; it shouldn't affect him this badly. 

Refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes, he sat up, arms around his legs, forehead resting against his knees. A tear had begun rolling its way down his cheek and his whole body was trembling, the declining adrenaline levels making him light-headed.

 

Unsure whether John wanted him to comfort him or if he wanted to be left alone, Sherlock slowly lowered his arm back to his side. As the silence stretched between them, he continued to sit on his heels, looking at the crouching figure of John, desperate to do something--anything--to make him feel better.

Finally, having gathered enough courage, Sherlock gingerly put his arms around John, embracing him.

 

John was surprised when he felt Sherlock's strong arms around him, but he leaned into the embrace instinctively. Sherlock was kneeling beside him, his arms around him, and John turned his head slightly, burying his face in the nape of Sherlock's neck, his curls tickling against his cheek.

 

When Sherlock felt John relax against his chest, he cautiously started rubbing his hand gently across his back in an attempt to soothe him.

As they stayed silent, remaining in each other's embrace, he found himself wondering if what he felt now was what his brother had warned him about on so many occasions, Mycroft's words ringing in his head:  _ Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. _

But he knew that he was already in too deep, that it was way past the point of turning back, his heart aching at the thought of letting go.

 

John snuggled further into Sherlock's arms but found himself unable to relax because of a nagging thought in the back of his mind. What if he was Sherlock's rebound? Victor was out of the picture now, at least John thought he was, but he couldn't help but wonder if this sudden intimacy was because he was Sherlock's second best, second choice...

Unable to push his doubtful thoughts away, he untangled himself unwillingly from Sherlock's warm grasp and turned to face him, hoping that the room was dark enough to hide his red rimmed eyes. 

"Sherlock," he whispered. "I've been meaning to ask you something.”

 

Disconcerted by the loss of John’s warmth, Sherlock was quiet for a moment before replying, “Yes?” An uneasiness began to settle in the pit of his stomach as he sought John’s eyes in the darkness, afraid that he had done something wrong.

"I..." John hesitated. "I know this is none of my business... but I--I was, yeah, just. Do you--did you--do you love him?"

“Wha--who?” Sherlock blurted out, John’s question surprising him, his forehead creasing into a frown. “You mean Victor?”

"Yeah," John answered weakly.

“I--I haven’t really thought about it,” Sherlock frowned, “but no… I don’t love him.” After a short pause, he added, “I never loved him.”

"Okay," John breathed quietly, feeling guilty for feeling so relieved.

“I know it sounds pathetic, but I really thought he liked me though,” Sherlock muttered. “Not that it matters, anyway.”

"Sherlock," John murmured. "Of course it matters. If you're with someone who doesn't like you... I'm sorry you had to go through that."

“Oh, it’s quite okay. I should’ve been more careful.”

“No, Sherlock. There was nothing you should have done. It's  _ him. _ It's not your fault,” John said, and his tone left no room for disagreement, "someone who likes you for  _ who you are _ knows that."

“Thank you, John, that’s--thank you,” Sherlock mumbled. “Wait, do you mean you like…  _ me?” _

John could only nod, any words he had thought of saying disappearing from him, his cheeks burning hot and his tongue thick and useless in his mouth.

After a beat of silence, all Sherlock could say was, “Oh.”

“Anyway, are you all right? You had a nightmare,” Sherlock asked, just to break the silence that was making him feel uncomfortable.

"Yeah, 'm fine" John said weakly, barely able to hear himself over the slamming sounds of his heart beating in his ears. He had a sinking feeling that he had just ruined  _ everything  _ between them, that Sherlock would think he was weird, that he'd be angry or grossed out. John sighed and pulled his fingers through his hair. It was getting too long. He really had to cut it soon.

"Look, if you want to go, it's okay, I... yeah."

“What? No,” Sherlock said, taken aback by John’s words. “Why would I--“ he began, but stopped as the realisation struck him. “John. I like you. Too.”

"Wait... you what?"

He swallowed. “I… like… you,” Sherlock repeated slowly, his heart hammering violently in his chest.

"You  _ do _ ?" 

John was completely dumbfounded, verging on believing this was just an enormous practical joke.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt faint, his heart threatening to break free from his chest.

John's insides were on fire, his nerve endings focusing entirely on Sherlock. He had never felt this strongly about  _ anyone  _ before and he never thought Sherlock would reciprocate, not even slightly.  _ Maybe he was still asleep, still dreaming. _

Hesitantly, John edged closer to where Sherlock was sitting on the floor, his head hanging down, looking at the floor. With one hand he cupped Sherlock's right cheek and lifted his head to look at him. His thumb brushed across the soft skin and Sherlock looked at him shyly.

John leaned in, until their lips were mere inches apart, but waited, not sure if this was what Sherlock wanted. He had admitted to liking John, yes, but that didn't necessarily mean that he wanted to do  _ this _ . He wanted to leave it up to Sherlock to decide. 

His left hand went up into Sherlock's hair and tugged gently, burying his fingers in the curls, but his face remained at the same distance. Sherlock's breath ghosted across John's skin.

They were breathing each other’s air, John’s lips a hair’s width away from his, as if asking permission to close the distance between them. Sherlock could feel the warm puffs of the boy’s exhalations on his skin, launching shivers down his arms. His breath hitched in his throat. He felt intoxicated; by John’s smell, his warmth, the closeness, his fingers in his hair. 

The moment seemed to stretch forever, the tension almost palpable in the air around them. And then, without even realising it, he leaned his head forward, his lips touching John’s, ever so lightly, as though asking:  _ Is this okay? _

John let out a desperate breath as their lips met, and he pulled Sherlock closer to him, both his hands buried in Sherlock's hair, his lips meeting his with heat and force. One hand came down from his hair to the back of his neck, and his tongue came out to gently lap at Sherlock's lower lip. John couldn't believe what was happening; he was kissing Sherlock Holmes. 

John found himself unable to keep his hands still; they roamed from Sherlock's neck and hair, to gently cupping his face and squeezing his shoulders. He was running out of breath quickly, but he didn't want to stop, afraid that doing so would break the moment they were having. His lips only left Sherlock's to move over his jaw and cheeks, kissing a soft trail down his neck, just breathing in Sherlock's scent, absolutely high on it.

 

A soft gasp escaped deep from Sherlock’s throat, as John’s lips traced a line along his neck, the heat of his breath setting off tingles along his arms, and he reached for John, desperate to be closer to him, his fingertips tracing every bump of his spine, stroking the wing of his left shoulder blade, the line of his ribs. His movements grew more frantic, more urgent, as Sherlock suddenly needed to touch him everywhere, to explore every part of his body.

Sherlock brought their lips back together, his tongue searching for John’s, as his breathing became more erratic, his lungs burning in his chest, aching for air. But he didn’t want to stop. He  _ never  _ wanted to stop.

 

John responded eagerly, and soon he found himself laying on top of Sherlock on the hard floor, one hand resting above Sherlock's head, the other cupping his face, their kisses open-mouthed and desperate. In any other circumstance, John would have been embarrassed at the erection he was currently sporting, but this was  _ Sherlock _ , the boy who knew almost everything there was to know about him. John groaned into their kiss, and he tried biting on Sherlock's bottom lip carefully, adamant not to hurt him.

 

Sherlock felt his throat growing tighter, the weight on top of him suddenly too much, as he struggled to get more air into his lungs. Panic rising in his chest, he felt paralysed, pinned down to the floor. 

He couldn’t  _ breathe. _

He needed to get away. He needed it to stop.

Feeling disoriented, Sherlock started to push the weight away, push as hard as he could, trying to wriggle away from it. A sob threatening to escape his throat, Sherlock cried out, “No. Please, stop.”

 

John stopped immediately and got off Sherlock, sitting next to him, confused and still panting.

"Sherlock?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

 

Gasping for air, Sherlock scrambled backwards on his hands and feet, the pressure on his chest weighing him down.

It took him a moment to orientate himself, but when he caught sight of John, reality came rushing back to him. Victor wasn't there. He was safe. He was with  _ John. _

Still breathing harshly, Sherlock lowered his gaze, not knowing what to say, suddenly feeling ashamed.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, but his words were barely discernible.

 

"Hey, hey, hey, easy there, Sherlock," John got up off the floor and walked toward Sherlock warily. "Can you sit down on the side of the bed for me? Take a deep breath. That's it."

 

With John's guidance, Sherlock took deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, until he had calmed down enough to speak again.

"I'm so sorry, John. It wasn't you."

He was such a mess, Sherlock thought, as embarrassment flooded him, heat creeping up his neck and seeping into his cheeks.

 

John knelt in front of him on the floor and looked up, worry lining his expression.

"Stop apologising. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I--I don't know," he mumbled, "I don't know what came over me. It--I just couldn't breathe."

"Sherlock, look at me," John pleaded. "Hey," John said and lightly put a finger under Sherlock's cheek, lifting his face to meet his eyes. "You can tell me, it's okay."

Fidgeting with the hem of his T-shirt, Sherlock stared at his lap. "I just... I guess I forgot where I was. For a second. And kinda panicked. I--" he hesitated before continuing, "I thought... I forgot--I thought you were him."

Realisation hit John straight in the face, and he felt anger rising. 

"I'm going to  _ fucking  _ kill him," he muttered, but tried to keep his temper intact for Sherlock. He stood and sat next to Sherlock on the bed, looking over at him and taking his right hand in his, thumbs stroking across the back of the hand. 

"It's okay, Sher. Thank you for telling me." John hesitated but continued, "If it makes you uncomfortable we don't have to do that kind of stuff, you know."

Feeling John's touch, just the slightest pressure of his fingers against his skin, grounded him, and he instantly felt calmer.

"No. John, no. I want to.  _ I really _ do."

"Okay," John said and he couldn't suppress grinning at Sherlock's eagerness. "How about you take control? I'll do anything but I'll let you decide the pace and what happens?"

"That sounds good," Sherlock said, smiling shyly.

"Okay," John smiled and leaned in to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "Are you tired?"

"Not really," he said, but as soon as the words were out, his mouth stretched into a gaping yawn.

John giggled and said, "Uh-huh, I can see that" winking at Sherlock. 

"I need to sleep a few more hours anyway, didn't exactly sleep well so far. But yeah, we can… ahem… talk more, tomorrow. Yeah?" 

John stood and started walking back to the sofa.

"John?" Sherlock blurted out without thinking.

"Yeah?"

John turned around.

Sherlock would have wanted to ask John to sleep with him, the sudden increase in the distance between them, albeit short, feeling unbearable, but somehow, felt too shy to say anything, "Uh, nothing. Good night."

"You're a terrible liar, Sherlock."

"I am not," Sherlock said, trying his best to sound convincing.

"You can trick most people, but you can't trick me." 

John smiled warmly at Sherlock's pouting face.

"It was nothing, I assure you."

John rolled his eyes, then narrowed them and looked at Sherlock's flustered face.

"You want me to...?" John motioned toward the bed.

"Yes," he burst out breathlessly, the blush on his cheeks deepening.

"You can just ask. I didn't want to suggest it because I didn't want to seem too eager and overstep any boundaries," John explained but turned toward the bed and sat down on the left side. "C'mere," John said to Sherlock as he lay down on his back.

Sherlock lay down beside John, snuggling closer to him. "You're not overstepping," he mumbled into the pillow.

John put his arm behind Sherlock's head, inviting him to lie on his chest.

Resting his ear against John's chest, his eyelids feeling heavy, he whispered sleepily, "Good night, John."

John placed a kiss on the top of Sherlock's head, putting his arm around him protectively.

"Night, Sher."


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock woke up to find himself soaking wet, his T-shirt clinging to his back and his hair stuck to his forehead, dripping with sweat. Feeling light-headed and slightly disoriented, he propped himself up on his elbows, but immediately regretted it, his stomach roiling in protest at the abrupt movement. Flashing his eyes open, Sherlock barely had time to register John sleeping beside him before he bent over the boy’s supine body, leaning over the edge of the bed, and vomited, his chest heaving violently as his stomach emptied onto the floor.

John jumped awake at the sudden weight on him and the sound of Sherlock vomiting, and he tried to sit up, unable to, and instead settled for pushing Sherlock's hair out of his face. 

"You're okay," he said, his voice thick with sleep. He helped Sherlock sit on the edge of the bed. "You think you will be sick again?"

Mortified, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, his whole body shaking, waves of nausea washing over him. He felt so sick. “I’m not sure.”

"Alright, come on," John said and stood, careful not to step on any vomit. He reached his hand out to Sherlock who took it carefully, and he led him over to the bathroom and sat him down on the toilet seat. He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, handed it to Sherlock, and then went and collected a bucket, some paper and cleaning liquid and went and cleaned the floor up. Then he went back into the bathroom and Sherlock. He kneeled beside Sherlock who was clinging onto his glass, his knuckles white. 

"You okay?"

“Not really,” Sherlock said in a dry voice, his stomach churning uncomfortably. His body kept shuddering as chills ran down his spine, and he felt cold to the very core. “John,” he hesitated, “I’m not sure if I can do this. To quit cold turkey.”

"You have to," John said, and then added, "you don't have a choice. If you have to scream and fight someone, then that's what we'll do. If you need distractions I'll tell you about incredibly boring things. But you have to do this, Sherlock. Are we clear?"

When Sherlock didn't reply, John grabbed his available hand.

"Fancy a smoke?"

He also noticed he was still in his boxers and he was starting to become self-conscious. Sherlock hadn't actually seen this much of him before.

Sherlock nodded weakly, and slowly got up. But as he straightened to his feet, the edges of his vision suddenly went dark, and swaying momentarily, he tried to grab hold of something to balance himself.

John was quickly at his side, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's waist, holding him steady.

Keeping his eyes closed, John's strong arm holding him upright, Sherlock mumbled, "Perhaps, I could taper off gradually instead--"

"No."

John leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

"I will carry you downstairs if I have to," John said, and he was only partly joking.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a pout, but it was soon replaced by a flustered smile, as John scooped him off the bathroom floor and carried him to the bedroom.

John smiled down at Sherlock as he placed him gently on the bed before fetching them a pair of sweatpants and hoodie each. He handed the clothes to Sherlock and put his own on, and then he helped Sherlock down the stairs.

John pushed the front door open with his foot and led Sherlock and himself outside, sitting down on a bench right outside the exit. He fumbled for his lighter and cigarette pack, offering one to Sherlock, lighting his first, before lighting one for himself.

Sherlock sat quietly, taking deep drags on his cigarette. His nausea had eased somewhat, but he still felt cold, shivers running through his entire body.

John scooted closer, putting one arm around Sherlock, sharing some of his body heat as they sat together, chain-smoking. He rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

To be so close to John made something warm bloom in Sherlock's chest, and he instinctively snuggled closer, taking in his scent as John's sleep-tousled hair tickled his cheek.

"When did you know?" he asked quietly, suddenly breaking the silence.

“When did I know what?" John asked and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck.

"That you liked me," Sherlock mumbled, the kiss making goosebumps rise on his arms.

"Uuuuuhhhhmm... are you sure you want to know?" John blushed, a deep red spreading across his cheeks.

Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet John's, scanning his face curiously. "Of course."

"Alright. Ehm. Well," John coughed, embarrassed, his head lifted from Sherlock's shoulder. "Over six months… before we started talking."

Sherlock's mouth popped open in surprise. "Oh." After a pause, he asked, "Why me?"

"I don't know," John answered. "First time I saw you in chemistry class I just knew... But I couldn't do anything because of my dad, you know? And I didn't think you'd be interested anyway..."

Sherlock swallowed hard, a vivid image of John's bruised face and neck surfacing in his mind. "Your father. Has he tried to contact you?"

John shook his head, and placed it back against Sherlock's shoulder, lighting yet another cigarette.

"Don't think he cares enough," he shrugged.

"I'm sorry, John. You deserve so much better."

"It's okay," John said and sighed. "Got used to it over the years. Well, aside from last time, I--yeah..."

"I hate him. I haven't even met him and I still feel pure hatred," Sherlock said, his voice cool, but anger, hot and dark, was bubbling up inside him.

"I'll make sure you never do," John said grimly into the nape of Sherlock's neck, not keen on talking about his father unless absolutely necessary.

"Should we get back inside?"

Sherlock nodded, stubbing his cigarette out with the toe of his shoe.

"Alright," John said and followed Sherlock's example, and helped Sherlock back on his feet, hovering closely in case Sherlock lost his balance again. They started making the ascent up the stairs. 

"So, what do you want to do?" John asked as he closed the front door behind him. "Mary won't be back for another few days, she insisted to stay with her parents."

"Do you have any suggestions?" Sherlock asked, suddenly feeling shy and insecure. Someone caring enough to ask his opinion felt new and unfamiliar to him; Victor had never asked him what  _ he _ wanted to do, let alone listened to him when he did not want to do something.

"Whatever you feel up for doing," John smiled warmly at Sherlock and pulled him close into a hug, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. "Do  _ you _ have any suggestions?"

His heart stuttered a little, the gentleness in John's voice warming him from head to toe. "Well, I think I should take a shower first."

"Alright, I'll go after you."

~~ * ~~

After Sherlock had showered and brushed his teeth, John went and got ready, throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater after having showered. 

John was making tea while Sherlock sat cross-legged on the sofa.

Sherlock couldn't help but keep stealing glances at John's direction as the boy was preparing tea for  both of them, his sandy brown hair still damp and tousled from the shower. When John wasn't looking, he let his eyes wander over him, noting how perfectly his well-worn jeans hugged his muscular legs, and how his right arm, strong and lean, flexed under his sweater as he filled the electric kettle with water.

John was simply breathtaking, and Sherlock had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that he, Sherlock Holmes, had kissed his lips.

Setting down both cups on the coffee table, John settled in on the sofa next to Sherlock, dragging his knees up to his chest and leaning his head against the backrest. 

"Figured out what you want to do yet?"

“Well, _ you _ won’t let me do what I really want to do,” Sherlock complained accusingly, sticking his lower lip out in a mock pout before he continued, “but I suppose we could do something else. Perhaps we could…” His voice trailed off, as his gaze locked with John’s, his deep blue eyes, sparkling with warmth, making him momentarily forget what he wanted to say.

"Go on," John said, a cheeky grin on his face, "maybe we can...?"

“Huh?” Sherlock said, distracted, unable to tear his eyes from John’s lips as they curled into a mischievous grin.

"I said..." John murmured and switched positions so he was sitting sideways, and he grabbed the hem of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him down with him, so that Sherlock was hovering above John who was laying on his back, his legs stretched out. "What do you want to do?"

Sherlock's heart catapulted into his throat as he suddenly lay above John, his breath ghosting over his parted lips. "Um," Sherlock began, licking his lips. They were so close that he could have counted John's eyelashes, and the freckles scattered across his sun-kissed nose and cheeks. Breathlessly, Sherlock whispered, "This" as he closed the distance between them, his lips crashing against John's, his exhalations tickling his skin.

John moaned appreciably at Sherlock's enthusiasm and opened his mouth, meeting Sherlock's lips in full, grazing his tongue across his bottom lip. His hands came up to bury themselves in Sherlock's hair. He tasted Sherlock on his tongue, a unique mix of tobacco, toothpaste and tea, and John felt like he was drowning. His skin was on fire and his heart was beating wildly, but his self-control stopped him from doing anything sudden or drastic, wanting to make Sherlock feel safe and comfortable.

Sherlock felt John’s hands in his hair, pulling him closer to him, a tingling rush sweeping across his scalp, the tip of his tongue tracing the outline of his lower lip. He faintly registered a soft gasp, but wasn’t sure whether it came from his or John’s throat, too absorbed in tasting the boy, the lingering taste of toothpaste on his tongue. 

Supporting himself, his hands on either side of John’s head, he deepened their kiss, swirling his tongue around his, sucking on it, eliciting a muffled moan from him. Heat was gathering deep in his belly, sending goose bumps across his legs, shivers down his spine.

Breathing harshly, he broke the kiss, their lips barely touching, as he stared at John’s parted lips, reddened and wet. Sherlock lowered his head, his tongue tracing a line from John’s ear to the base of his neck.

"Sherlock," John breathed against Sherlock's head, his hands grabbing his shirt tightly, trying not to jerk his hips upward.

His hands came down to Sherlock's neck, and he stroked his thumbs gently across the sensitive skin there, enjoying the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

Sherlock started pressing kisses over John's chest, light and frantic, making his way down his lower abdomen, slipping his hand under his sweater and sliding his palm up his chest, feeling the heat of his skin against his fingertips.

He paused with his mouth above John's crotch, his heart pounding erratically in his chest, as he began working on his zipper, his hand trembling.

John groaned loudly but then thought about what was happening. He wasn't sure Sherlock was ready for this and he didn't want to rush things. Considering Sherlock's history with Victor, the name still made John shudder with anger; he wanted to make sure everything was entirely on Sherlock's terms. 

"Wait, stop," John gasped, trying to catch his breath before continuing, "are you sure this is what you want?"

Sherlock's hand stopped moving, as he lifted his eyes to John's, a frown forming on his forehead. His breath coming in sharp bursts, he snapped, "What? Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just thought..." John said, still struggling to breathe right, "considering what you've told me. I don't want you to do something unless you're one hundred percent it's what  _ you _ want, not just what _ I _ want."

"Don't you want me to?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice even, not wanting to show that he was hurt. Sherlock rolled away from him, and got to his feet, avoiding John's eyes.

"Sherlock, of course I do, you make me crazy," he admitted honestly. "I just don't want you to do anything you don't feel ready for, is all. Don't want you to feel pressured."

John reached for Sherlock and pulled him back, tilting his head upward, kissing his lips softly. 

"You. Make. Me. Crazy," he said again, in between kisses on Sherlock's face. One hand cupped Sherlock's face and stroked his cheek.

Sherlock's heart swelled in his chest as John's lips gave tiny pecks on his cheeks, and a shy smile replaced his pout.

"I wasn't thinking of giving you up anytime soon anyway," John mumbled against the sensitive skin underneath Sherlock's ear. "We have all the time in the world."

"Good," Sherlock mumbled quietly, a light blush spreading across his cheeks.

"Now, where were we?" John grinned as he presses another kiss to Sherlock's lips, the hint of his tongue tangible against his bottom lip.

Sherlock crushed their lips together, John's gentleness making butterflies flutter in his stomach.

John pulled Sherlock back on the sofa, pulling him down with him, and kissed back passionately. His arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist and his lips were roaming between Sherlock's lips, ear and neck.

Sherlock had to bite back a moan when John's lips grazed his neck, the muscles of his thighs trembling as he felt the damp heat of John's mouth against his bare skin. He quivered under John's touch, his strong arms holding him tightly, encircling his waist protectively.

A rush of heat surged through his body as he finally brought their lips together after desperately seeking John's, shakily pressing their foreheads together as he deepened the kiss, his tongue searching his.

John pushed their bodies flush together, holding back a moan as Sherlock's hips ground against his. He could feel Sherlock's erection against his thigh and he was sure Sherlock could feel his, but he focused on kissing those lips and sucking a pink mark on Sherlock's neck. He let Sherlock do exactly what he wanted, feeling his long fingers under his shirt, feeling his stomach and abs, his sides and whatever part of his back that Sherlock could reach. He felt like a thirteen year old who had just had his first hormonal spike, his face flush and his adrenaline spiking harshly.

Sherlock rucked up John's sweater, as he heatedly shoved their hips together, his hand stroking the flushed skin of John's chest, his fingertips tracing a line down his sternum.

John moaned against Sherlock's lips at the added friction between them, and he found himself adding more, his self-control slipping with the sounds Sherlock was making. Pushing his right knee up in between Sherlock's legs he let his hands feel across his sides, touching his soft skin with open palms, feeling the little strand of hair beneath Sherlock's belly button.

Sherlock couldn't help but keep thrusting his hips against John's, the friction of denim against denim almost too much, his aching erection straining against his jeans, his back slick with sweat. 

"Oh, fuck," he gasped, as John's body rocked against his, rubbing him just right. Raking his nails through John's hair, Sherlock wrapped his fingers in it, pulling him closer, not wanting to let go.

John pushed Sherlock away a little, trying to catch his breath, and swapped positions so that Sherlock was laying on his back. John didn't hover above him, afraid that Sherlock would get the wrong associations, but he looked up at Sherlock, pursed lips, his eyes flicking between his face and zipper, licking his lips.

"May I?" he breathed.

The question startling him, Sherlock blinked at him for a moment, his breathing uneven. As he realised what John was suggesting, he swallowed hard, and breathed, "Please."

John released a breath he didn't realise he was holding, and started unzipping Sherlock's jeans, pushing his shirt up to reveal his stomach in the process. He hadn't actually _ done _ this with a man before, but he knew what he liked himself. 

Sherlock's zipper came all the way down and he unbuttoned the top button, pressing wet kisses against his exposed stomach, sucking light marks on his pale skin. He heard Sherlock gasp above him and John was encouraged, licking wet stripes down the trail of dark hair, stopping right above his dark boxers. 

"You sure?" John asked one more time, just to be sure.

Feeling hazy, Sherlock nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs, his thighs trembling. "Yes, John. Please," he whimpered, heat pooling low in his abdomen.

John nodded and sat on all fours on the sofa, lifting Sherlock's thighs slightly as he lowered his boxers, his erection springing free with a moan from Sherlock. John leaned in and pressed one last kiss to Sherlock's lips before kissing down his neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his exposed chest, trailing his tongue down the dark hair around Sherlock's cock. He could feel Sherlock squirming below him and John decided to blow a hot breath on the tip of Sherlock's cock, already leaking precome.

John looked up at Sherlock's flushed face and lowered his lips, taking his head in his mouth, never breaking eye contact. 

The taste was saltier than he had imagined but he liked it, and experimentally swerved his tongue around Sherlock, enjoying the moans he was making, humming against him.

Arching his back, Sherlock gasped as John took him into his mouth, the wet heat surrounding him. John's tongue running along the length of his shaft, his breath hitched in his throat as a wave of pleasure washed over him, his entire body quivering.

His cock had never been in anyone's mouth, and all these new sensations were making him light-headed, his thoughts incoherent with desire, his vision blurring as arousal spiked through him.

John took Sherlock deeper, adding pressure with his mouth as his tongue continued circling around his shaft, his hands coming up to follow the movements, dragging his foreskin down with each movement.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of his ragged breathing as his hips jerked upward of their own accord, heat surging through his body, spreading over every inch of his skin, to every limb, every fingertip.

He was close. "John," he blurted, "I--oh, God."

John added another hint of pressure, increasing the speed until he felt hot liquid running down his throat and Sherlock let out a loud groan. He held him in place until Sherlock stopped jerking and stilled, letting go of Sherlock with a pop. John took a peek at Sherlock through his eyelashes and it was the most gorgeous view he had ever had. Sherlock's pale skin was red and flustered, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes closed and his legs still trembling.

Sherlock felt as if he were drowning as a surge of arousal pulsed through him, his body trembling, his heart pounding erratically in his chest, skipping beats, blood roaring in his ears.

As his vision faded to black, he couldn't move, he couldn't speak, he couldn't think, a pool of pleasure spreading through his body.

John gave Sherlock a moment to recover, scooting down to sit on the floor near Sherlock's head, his back against the sofa. He looked at the still frame of Sherlock and felt warm affection settle in his heart, knowing he was already so deep into this thing that they had that there was nothing he wouldn't do for Sherlock. Not anymore.

As Sherlock's mind started clearing, the first thought that came to him was that John still hadn't come.

"John," he mumbled, his voice raspy, gesturing vaguely in the direction of John's crotch, "you, um... you didn't--"

"It's okay" John beamed at Sherlock. "Was it--was I okay? I mean, I've never done it before so I wasn't sure..."

"Okay?" Sherlock asked, taken aback. "You--John, you were... perfect."

John could only smile and place a lazy kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Good. I wasn't sure what you'd like, wasn't sure what V--I mean. Uh. What you have done previously."

Sherlock's stomach seized. 

"Um... we never--he never... I never had," he swallowed before continuing, "an orgasm. With him. It was just... about him."

John's jaw dropped open.

"You... are you serious?"

Sherlock nodded, averting John's gaze.

"I don't know what to say... he never deserved you."

“I'm just glad to be rid of him."

"Me too," John said softly and reached for Sherlock's hand.

He let John take his hand, the gesture making him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and gave him a little smile.

John cleared his throat and said, awkwardly, “I'm going to have to go and take care of... this.” He gestured toward his crotch, his erection still evident against his jeans.

"Oh," Sherlock said dumbly. "Do you want me to... help?"

"Only if you actually want to," John assured him.

"Of course I want to."

"Are you sure?"

"John,  _ please _ ," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "I am more than sure."

"Okay then," John said, still a little hesitant. "If you're sure."

Huffing out an annoyed breath, Sherlock got up from the sofa, lowered himself to the floor beside John, and placed his hand on the visible bulge. Locking his eyes with John's, he squeezed gently, and said, his voice low and rough, "I. Am. Sure."

John swallowed soundly and closed his eyes, succumbing to Sherlock's touch. 


	22. Chapter 22

John awoke to loud banging on the door, and he jerked from the heavy sleep he had been in. Rubbing his eyes, he noticed the sleeping form of Sherlock on his chest, but he untangled himself from the arms draped across him and got up, throwing on sweatpants and a shirt, and he opened the bedroom door. The knocking was growing more insistent now, and John hurried to the front door, opening it, only to be met by a fist to his face.

"What the--" he staggered and stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance when he saw the form outside in the hallway. 

His father.

Fear overwhelmed John as he took an instinctive step backwards, slamming into the kitchen table. 

"You piece of shit," John's father spat, his breath reeking of alcohol and tobacco. He took a step forward and aimed a kick at John's side, and John doubled over as his nearly-healed ribs made a sickening crack, and he gasped out loudly, unable to scream because the air had left his lungs.

 

When Sherlock woke up, the first thing he noticed was that John’s arms weren’t wrapped around him, the absence of his warm body next to his leaving him cold. Before he had time to decide whether to push his lower lip out in a pout or to open his mouth to call John’s name, his head snapped up at a shattering sound like glass breaking coming from the direction of the kitchen, followed by shouting and a string of curse words. Suddenly alert, adrenaline spiking through his veins, he leapt out of the bed and almost stumbled, his long limbs entangled in the blanket. Hopping on one foot, he kicked the blanket off him, and dashed to the kitchen, not bothering to be careful, his worry for John overriding reason.

Sherlock was met by an unfamiliar man hovering in front of John, reeking of alcohol, his fists clenching and unclenching. He made a few quick observations: the man was in his fifties, short in stature, and had sandy brown hair, the colour oddly familiar. The realisation slammed into him like a punch to the gut—it was John’s father. He darted his eyes at John. The boy was slumped against the kitchen table, holding his side with an unsettling grimace on his face. Sherlock’s heart gave an uneasy lurch. “John!” he yelled, and rushed to stand between the two men, his arms spreading protectively before John. He was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring, anger, red and raw, blurring his vision.

"Sherlock, get back," John grunted, his voice thick with pain.

"This is Sherlock?" John's dad asked, his eyes darting between the two boys. "This is the guy who turned you into a disgusting faggot?"

John understood what was about to happen before Sherlock did, and he grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down with all the strength he could muster. Sherlock stumbled backwards as a foot collided with John's face, a stream of blood trickling down the side of his mouth. Despite the alarming pain scouring through his body, John stood, putting himself in between his dad and Sherlock.

“John, no!” Sherlock cried out, feeling his throat tighten as he saw the blood running down his face. Frantically looking around the room, his mind racing, he tried to think of a way out of the situation.

"How did you find me?" John asked through clenched teeth as he braced himself for another hit.

"Friend of yours, Victor, said you'd be here," his father answered honestly, lowering his hands for a moment, but raising them quickly again when he saw the hickey on John's neck. He walked unsteadily forward and grabbed John by the neck, his knee coming up harshly into his stomach, and John heard himself release the air in his lungs, his right one refusing to fill back up with air.

John felt strong hands around his neck, constricting his airways, and he tried desperately to move the hands away, but the pain in his chest made him weak. He tried wriggling, and managed to land a knee in his father's groin, the hands releasing his neck as he gasped for air. John's dad staggered backwards, his eyes wide with surprise, but he recovered quickly, grabbing something from the back of his jeans.

A gun.

John’s mind froze as his dad pointed the gun toward Sherlock, but his legs moved of their own accord as he saw the slight movement of his father's fingers on the trigger, and he jumped in front of Sherlock, pain rippling through his upper abdomen as something hard pierced through his skin. He looked down and noticed something red starting to soak up his shirt, and he looked back toward his father, but he had bolted, the gun dropped on the floor where he had stood.

“Nonononono,” Sherlock said frantically, dropping to his knees beside John, staring at the blood seeping through a hole in John’s T-shirt, soaking his shirt. The boy looked dazed, his eyes unfocused, his breathing ragged. Quickly, his hands trembling, Sherlock took his own T-shirt off, pressing it to the wound. “Here, John, put your hand here,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and even, despite a knot forming in his throat, “press and hold. I’ll be right back.”

Scrambling to his feet, Sherlock rushed to the bedroom to retrieve his phone, his heart pounding in his ears as he fumbled for the phone on the nightstand. He dialled 999 and ran back to John, clutching the phone to his ear.

Kneeling beside John, Sherlock started pressing down against the wound again, his white shirt rapidly turning red. “John, stay with me,” Sherlock pleaded. He could feel panic, cold and unrelenting, tightening his throat, as the blood kept oozing from the wound, staining his fingers. “You’ll be okay. Help is coming. You’ll be okay.” Whether he was trying to convince John or himself, he did not know.

"'M cold," John muttered under his breath, his head spinning. He found it annoying that he couldn't focus his vision on anything, and everything kept fading to darkness no matter how hard John tried to keep his eyes open. His consciousness fading, he could have sworn that he heard Sherlock say his name, but everything was too blurred at the edges to be sure. John felt nothing as his eyes closed one final time, the world disappearing around him.

"John. John! Please, please, please," Sherlock pleaded incoherently, pushing his hands against the wound as hard as he could, begging it to stop bleeding, praying that the ambulance would arrive soon. "John, stay, stay, stay. You have to. You'll be alright. Please," he all but sobbed, his eyes blurred with unshed tears.

John was too far away to hear or respond, his heart rate lowering and his skin turning pale, his hands cold from blood loss.

When the paramedics arrived through the door left open by John’s father, Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed, his blood-covered hands still pressed to the boy’s upper left abdomen, the once white shirt now drenched deep scarlet. A woman in her mid-thirties with a tight blonde ponytail soon took over, but Sherlock refused to let go of John, clinging to his hand, now cold and clammy, as if it were a lifeline, staining his limp fingers with blood. 

Three paramedics were hovering over John, assessing his breathing and circulation, and securing his airway. One of them placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, another inserted an IV line. Sherlock was aware that they were talking to each other, but the words didn’t reach his consciousness. The only sound that he heard was the thumping of his own heart, loud and frantic, as it threatened to break through his ribcage.

A fourth paramedic sat down on his heels beside Sherlock, and it took him a moment to realise he was addressing him. “Hey, is this your friend?” the paramedic asked, in a gentle but firm voice, “You can let go now. We’ll have to take him to the hospital. Here, give me your hand. We’ll take care of him.” He was young, probably in his twenties, Sherlock observed, with a ginger buzz cut and freckles across his nose and cheeks.

“No, he’s--he’s John,” he stammered, almost not recognising his own voice, now weak and thin. Sherlock felt the knot tighten in his throat as another sob threatened to escape. He clutched John’s hand harder.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll need to lift him up onto the stretcher now. You can let go,” Buzzcut continued, taking hold of Sherlock’s hand, trying to pry his fingers away from John’s.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock said with panic in his voice, “I--I can’t leave him.”

"Hey, hey, take a deep breath. It's okay, you can come with me and sit in the ambulance. Let's give my colleagues room to work, yeah? You can help John by answering some questions." Buzzcut smiled at him encouragingly.

Carefully, Sherlock let go of John's hand, giving him one last look before he grabbed Buzzcut's hand and let him pull him to his feet. His whole body was shaking, and his knees felt weak under his weight as he followed the paramedic in a daze, only vaguely aware of the commotion going on all around him. All he could think of was John, lying on the kitchen floor, cold and unresponsive, blood leaking through his shirt; John's ragged breathing, the thin sheen of sweat covering his limp body, the weakening pulse in his wrist. John. John. John.

"Let's find you something to wear first," Buzzcut said with a gentle smile still on his lips, giving a meaningful glance at his midsection.

Looking down, Sherlock noticed that he wasn't wearing a shirt, his chest bare and pale, having forgotten that he had removed it in his haste to stop John's bleeding earlier. "Oh."

He felt his legs moving beneath him, taking him toward the bedroom, but it felt as if someone else had taken over control of his body, as if it weren't he who reached the bedroom and fumbled for something to wear. As if this was all happening to someone else, and he was just a spectator watching the scene unfold before his eyes.

He took the first item of clothing he happened to lay his hands on, his heart giving a painful lurch as he registered that it was the hoodie John had worn earlier that day. Please, John, don't die, Sherlock thought, don't die, don't die,  _ do not die. _


	23. Chapter 23

An hour or three later, Sherlock didn’t know, he was sitting in the hospital waiting room, slumped in a chair, wearing John’s hoodie and his own pyjama pants. It was the night between Saturday and Sunday, and the waiting room was quiet apart from a young woman sitting with a baby in her lap, and an elderly couple whispering to each other in the corner.

Sherlock knew his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying, but he didn’t care. All he cared about, at that moment, was to see John again, alive and well, smiling at him, that lopsided grin of his tilting his lips. Lifting his hand to his face, he sniffed the sleeve of the hoodie, breathing in the scent of John, a mix of clean cotton and lavender soap with a hint of cologne and tobacco. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on that smell, imagining that John was there with him, joking with him and chuckling whenever he made a witty remark.

A set of footsteps approached from down the  corridor and Sherlock lifted his eyes, hoping it was a doctor bearing news of John's well-being.

It was not.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said gently as he approached from around the corner, his usual sarcasm and cold demeanour blown away as he took in the general state of his baby brother. Unsure about what to do, Mycroft settled on sitting down on the available chair next to Sherlock. "Care to tell me what happened?"

"If you're here to scold me, I'm really not in the mood," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm not here to scold you, Sherlock," Mycroft nudged his shoulder gently. "What happened? Did John hurt you?" He gestured toward the dried blood on Sherlock's hands.

"No!" Sherlock blurted, and then swallowed hard before continuing, "No, he didn't do anything. It was his father. He--he shot John. In the abdomen."

Mycroft fished out his phone. "And did, John... have something to do with your recent lapse in judgement?" he asked as he typed on his mobile, to one of his minions with no doubt.

"Wha--no. He's helping me quit."

"Really?" Mycroft sounded genuinely surprised. "That's... good, Sherlock." The words sounded foreign coming from his mouth. "Where is John's father?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, feeling his throat tighten again. "Could you..." His voice trailed off.

"Of course," he responded as he typed another message on his phone. "I will find him. Do you--do you want me to wait with you?" he asked awkwardly, not sure how to help Sherlock, affection not being his strong suit.

"Oh, no, I'm sure you have more important things to do," he said lightly, feigning indifference.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said seriously. "I may be a gigantic arse most of the time, but you _ are _ and  _ always will be  _ my priority."

Sherlock laughed weakly. Not knowing what to say, he stayed silent for a moment. "You know what?"

"I know a lot of things," Mycroft gave Sherlock a sideway glance, "but what?"

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. "He was protecting me. When he got shot." After a short pause, he continued, "He's so good--too good--to me. I think--I think he makes me... happy."

"Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured sadly and did something he would deny later, even if held at gunpoint: he leaned in and wrapped his little brother in his arms, holding him, albeit a little awkwardly, close in a hug. 

"I will find that coward," he promised against Sherlock's hair.

~~ * ~~

After another hour, there still had been no word about John’s condition, and Sherlock was becoming more and more restless, squirming in his chair, fidgeting with the sleeve of the hoodie. To contain his anger, he had been plotting the death of John’s father in his mind, fantasising about countless ways to kill him, each more painful, more excruciating.

Amid his scheming, a memory came tumbling back to him, and he froze in his chair. John’s father had mentioned a name; he had told how he had found out about them, about John and him. Could he have heard wrong? 

Pinching his eyes shut, Sherlock tried to play the moment over in his mind, again and again, wanting to believe that he had heard wrong, that he somehow had misunderstood, but he always came to the same conclusion. A heavy weight settled on his chest as he slowly opened his eyes. It had been Victor. Because of Victor, John was now in the emergency room, fighting for his life.

Anger flared in his chest, but was soon replaced by a more painful feeling—guilt. It was his own fault that Victor even knew about them. He had let him into his life, let him use him. And now John might die because of it. The mere thought made his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach. If John died, he would have no one else to blame than himself.

"Sherlock? What is it?" Mycroft inquired upon noticing the worry lines on Sherlock's forehead.

"Oh, nothing. Just realised something. Nothing important," Sherlock mumbled, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat.

Mycroft observed Sherlock's expression for a moment, trying to decide whether he should push him for further information or not. He decided on the latter; if Sherlock wanted to tell him something, he could do it later when he had gotten some rest and some news on John. Realising he had to say something, he said, "If there is anything you need, you know where to find me.”

Sherlock lifted his eyes to Mycroft, startled. "Thank you."

Mycroft gave Sherlock one of his extremely rare smiles, and placed his hand on his shoulder, rising to stand up. 

"I'm going to see if I can put my reputation to good use and get some information,” he explained as he walked down the corridor and through a closed door that only doctors were allowed behind.

Twenty minutes later Mycroft reappeared through the sliding doors, a solemn look on his face.

Sherlock sprang to his feet. "Is he all right?"

He didn't bother to hide the desperation in his voice.

Mycroft hesitated, unsure of how many details he should tell Sherlock. 

"He's in surgery," he said, choosing to leave out the fact that he had flatlined twice already.

"And?" Sherlock demanded.

"They don't know yet. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

He let out a frustrated groan. "I can't just wait here and do nothing."

"You don't have a choice, I'm afraid," Mycroft sighed, and sat back down next to Sherlock.

"I hate this."

"I know," he said softly.

~~ * ~~

Another six hours passed, Mycroft leaving to make some phone calls, Sherlock pacing the waiting room desperately, and there still had been no news of John's condition. 

Sherlock was fighting himself and his withdrawals as well as his emotions, and exhaustion was starting to seep into his bones.

Suddenly, the doors swung open and a young male doctor walked into the waiting room.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he called and Sherlock jerked around, nodding.

"Come with me, please."

"How--is he...?" Sherlock begun.

"Alive, stable, at least for now," the doctor said. "He was lucky. A shot another few centimetres away and he wouldn't have made it."

"At least for now," Sherlock echoed the doctor's words, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. "What's the prognosis?"

"If he doesn't wake up in a few hours, there isn't much more we can do."

The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest, and Sherlock felt as if all the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

He didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything to say.

The thought that he had been trying to avoid ever since he saw blood beginning to soak John's shirt surfaced without warning: John might die.

"His room is this way, if you want to see him," the doctor said kindly.

He simply nodded, not trusting his voice not to break.

"Okay, follow me," the doctor said and led Sherlock further down the ICU to a private room by the end of the corridor. "If you need anything, or if he wakes up, press the nurse button."

With one last clap on the shoulder, the doctor walked off to other patients, leaving Sherlock outside the closed white door.

For a moment, Sherlock stood frozen outside the door, afraid that he would start crying if he opened it and saw John’s limp body lying on a hospital bed, but at the same time knowing that he would break down if he had to go one minute longer without holding him, without feeling his skin beneath his fingertips. 

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he gathered his courage, and pushed the door open.

The sight that greeted him made his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest. John was lying against white sheets with an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, his skin looking pale, almost translucent, under the harsh fluorescent lights. He was connected to a heart monitor, the electrode pads visible on his bare chest, and an IV line ran into his right arm. Sherlock took careful, slow steps closer to him, as if afraid that a sudden move would make the boy’s heart stop beating. He dragged a chair from the corner of the room and sat down next to the hospital bed.

Gingerly, Sherlock took John’s left hand in his, his skin cool and clammy under his touch. The knot in his throat tightened another notch, as he traced patterns on the back of his hand with his thumb. “John, please,” he began, trying to stifle the emotions that threatened to break through the surface, “please, wake up. You cannot—” He had to pause, his voice breaking. Fighting the stinging sensation behind his eyelids, he swallowed to loosen the knot tightening in his throat, and continued, “I need you to stay. Just—please, stay.”


	24. Chapter 24

Pain. Excruciating pain. That was the first thing that John noticed, his senses kick-starting. His abdomen felt as if it had been stabbed and torn open, his ribs were pounding, and there was something covering his nose and mouth. He tried to move, to sit up, but his body wasn't cooperating; his arms and fingers didn't budge a centimetre, no matter how hard he tried to make them. There was a weight pushing down on him, crushing his lungs together, and John struggled to take a breath, only managing a shallow intake of air.

His eyes fluttered open, his vision unfocused and blurred, the lights in the room glaringly bright. He moved his eyes around the room, the rest of his body still not moving at his commands. John thought he saw a dark-haired figure sitting next to him, but he couldn't be sure, not trusting his vision to be accurate.

The tongue in John's mouth was dry and thick, and he felt as if he had been asleep for a decade, but he tried to speak, make a sound. Nothing escaped his mouth, but he managed to make his fingers twitch a little.

Sherlock woke up with a start, feeling something move in his hand. It took him a moment to orientate himself and realise that he must have dozed off. Straightening himself in the chair, he blinked in the glaring light, trying to adjust to the brightness. 

John's hand was still in his hand, unmoving and cool to the touch, but he could have sworn that he had felt it move. "John?" he croaked, his voice rough with sleep.

John's eyes opened as he heard Sherlock's voice. His eyes flicked around the room, trying to decipher from where it had come. He tried moving his hands again, the tip of his finger moving slightly.

"Sh--" was all he managed to utter before his abdomen was aflame with pain, grunting from agony.

Sherlock's heart jumped at the slight movement of John's hand and the sound of his voice. "John? It's me, Sherlock," he said and inched closer to the boy, holding his breath.

"Sh--Sherlock?" John managed to grunt, his eyes glazed over, eyes still unable to focus.

"John! Yes, I'm here. I'm here." Sherlock felt as if he could finally breathe again, the knot in his throat dissolving.

"Are you okay?" John croaked, confused and disoriented.

"I am now," Sherlock whispered. "How are you feeling?" Stretching out his left arm, Sherlock pressed the call button, his right hand still holding John's.

"Everything hurts," he muttered, his eyes closing again. "What happened?"

"I'll ask the nurse to give you more morphine," Sherlock said, caressing his hand with his thumb. He hesitated before continuing, "You--you got shot."

John's eyes widened. "I--what? I don't--I don't remember..."

"Shh, it's all right. You should rest now."

John bit his cheek, trying to stifle another moan of pain.

"What--are you... Are you sure you're okay? You're safe?"

"I am alive because of you, John. The bullet was meant for me."

"Wha--" John was about to ask, but he was interrupted by a stream of nurses entering the room.

When the nurses began prodding John and taking his vital signs, Sherlock didn’t let go of John’s hand, embracing it with both of his. “He needs more morphine,” he said, not addressing anyone in particular, a hint of desperation still lingering in his voice. As much as he would have wanted to let go of the fear that had been tormenting him for the past few—how many exactly, he did not know—hours, he couldn’t shake the fact that John still might die. The thought made him wince. He was afraid to let himself believe that there wouldn’t be any complications, having learned early on that hope was a mere illusion, a human construct as fickle as a dream, and certainly not to be trusted. He forced himself to repeat those four words in his mind over and over again, as he clung harder to John’s hand, his heart aching in his chest:  _ John still might die. John still might die. John still might die. _

~~ * ~~

One of the nurses had administered a dose of pain medication, and John had soon drifted into a deep, morphine-induced sleep, his eyelids slowly fluttering closed. Watching his still body lying there against the stark white hospital sheets, looking ever so vulnerable, had made Sherlock’s heart swell in his chest, pressing painfully against his ribs. If there ever had been any doubt before, he knew that there was none now: he cared deeply for John. So much that it hurt.

A couple of hours later, Sherlock was still sitting hunched in the chair next to the hospital bed, his body drooping with exhaustion, his hand, damp with perspiration, still gripping John’s as if their fingers had melted together like molten iron. John was still asleep, his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing, punctuated by the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Battling the fatigue that was trying to drag him under the edge of consciousness, Sherlock kept an eye on John’s face, determined not to miss any changes in his condition, knowing that he would never forgive himself if he failed to notice something that was crucial for John’s survival.

The door to John's room opened and Mycroft entered, coming to a close when he saw Sherlock desperately hanging on to the hand of the boy that was in the hospital bed. He looked peaceful in his sleep, all tension gone from his face, as he lay hooked up to monitors and IVs. This was the boy that had somehow captured his baby brother's heart, and he was so completely  _ unremarkable, _ so ordinary. But there Sherlock was, nonetheless, clinging onto that hand like his life depended on it, his head hanging from exhaustion. Mycroft stood silently for a minute, looking at his brother with fondness.

Mycroft hated every single person that interacted with Sherlock, because none of the ordinary people, Greg excluded, understood his genius. Somehow this completely ordinary boy did, and had managed to make Sherlock a better person for it. Mycroft was baffled; he would have to speak to John alone to figure out the motive behind everything, and he thought he might even try to be nice, for Sherlock's sake. 

Clearing his throat to make his presence known, he walked over to Sherlock and nudged his shoulder. 

"Hey," he whispered, "you need to get some rest."

"No," Sherlock replied, his voice rough and unused, "I can't leave him."

"Okay," Mycroft said softly. "Can you at least have a shower? I can arrange for another bed in here so you can get some rest. I'll watch over John."

Sherlock looked at his brother for a few seconds, studying his face, before he nodded, slowly letting go of John's hand.

"There are fresh clothes in the bathroom," Mycroft said, "I'll call for you if anything changes."

As Sherlock hesitantly walked to the private bathroom and turned the shower on, Mycroft turned toward the boy on the bed. He could tell by the change in his breathing pattern that he was awake and had been listening, so he cleared his throat.

"John," he began, and rubbed his face tiredly. He could have sworn that he had aged a decade over the past two months. "If you hurt my brother..."

John's eyes fluttered open and he looked at Mycroft, studying him.

"You're Mycroft?" he asked curiously and Mycroft nodded. To Mycroft's surprise, John smiled warmly at him. "I thought Sherlock said you hated him." 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "My brother does love to be dramatic. I--no, I don't hate him. He is my responsibility and my priority. Always." 

John nodded, understanding, then grinned, "Is this the big-brother talk?"

Mycroft chuckled lightly. 

"Yes, I guess so," he said, "never had to have one before. Sherlock is... not easy to deal with."

John smiled in agreement.

"Do not take this conversation lightly though, John Watson. If you hurt my brother, I will make your life very difficult."

"I won't," John said, hearing the seriousness in Mycroft's voice. "I--" John hesitated, "I love him."

Mycroft's eyes widened for a second before he had the chance to regain his composure into his neutral mask. 

"I see," he said, speechless for once in his life. 

At that moment, the shower stopped running and they both turned their attention to the bathroom door.

"It was nice to make your acquaintance," Mycroft said as he excused himself, leaving John and Sherlock to some privacy.

"You're awake," Sherlock breathed, returning to his chair next to the bed.

"Yeah,” John smiled at Sherlock. He was able to move a little now that his morphine dose had been increased.

"Did my brother bother you?" he asked suspiciously, searching his face for any signs of discomfort.

"Maybe,” John grinned, "wouldn't call it _ bother _ exactly. He did do the whole angry big-brother thing though."

"Oh my God," Sherlock burst out, appalled, his face turning a deep shade of crimson.

"Don't worry,” John giggled, and winked at Sherlock "I didn't tell him our dirty secrets."

Sherlock felt his stomach flutter, the blush deepening.

After a short moment, he cleared his throat, "How are you feeling?”

"Like I've been shot," he answered honestly and gives a painful smile. "I still don't remember everything, just... can you tell me what happened?"

Sherlock reached for John's hand, avoiding his eyes. "Um... what do you remember?"

"Not much, my dad--you were there, I think he wanted to hurt you."

"Yes," he swallowed hard as the memory of it rushed back to him. "John..." he continued, "it's really all my fault and I am so sorry. If I hadn't made the mistake of trusting Victor, this would never have happened. I understand if you hate me--" The words just kept tumbling out of his mouth, his throat feeling tighter and tighter.

"Sherlock,  _ stop, _ what was that you said? Victor?" John tried to snap Sherlock out of his rant.

He stopped mid-sentence. "Yes. It was Victor who told your father where to find you. Us."

John closed his eyes, letting the information wash over him like cold water. Silence settled between them, and it was a while before John spoke again.

"Tell Mycroft."

Sherlock sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "If that's what you want. And if you want me to leave, just say it. I understand."

"Sherlock,” John tried sitting up but moved too quickly, groaning in pain as he propped himself up on his elbows. "I don't want you to leave."

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked urgently, noticing the grimace on John's face.

"Fine," he grunted, determined to not let pain get the most of him. "Sherlock, come here," he motioned for Sherlock to sit next to him on the bed.

Sherlock hesitated. "You have every right to be angry with me."

"Sit," John demanded, "and please, shut up and let me talk."

Meekly, he climbed onto the bed beside John, keeping his gaze down.

Taking a deep breath, John began, "None of this is your fault, Sherlock. Victor is a sadistic psychopath, he used you and he had absolutely no right to. Dad would have found me eventually, one way or another, and I--he would have discovered I was gay sooner or later anyway. Please, don't blame yourself, it's not your fault. I--I told your brother earlier, I--well, I have been meaning to tell you but the timing never seemed right." John smiled sadly.

Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet his, "Meaning to tell me what?" The sincerity in John's voice made Sherlock's heart stutter.

"I--" John hesitated, a blush creeping onto his cheeks, "I think I've known for a while, wasn't sure how to... didn't know if it was right--I. Sherlock, I--I love you."

For a split second, Sherlock felt as if his heart stopped beating, his breath catching in his lungs. All he could do was stare at John, his eyes blinking.

"You..." Sherlock began, "love me?"

John nodded, and reached for Sherlock's cheek with his hand, rubbing it with the back of his fingers. "So much," he breathed.

Still blinking, he looked at John. "I--I love you. Too."

John pulled Sherlock close into a tender kiss, trying to convey all the emotions he was feeling into the movement of their lips, his hand stroking through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock released the breath he had been holding into John's mouth, kissing him back, as if starved, melting under his touch.

"As much as I  _ adore  _ your little display of affection, I bear news regarding your father,” said Mycroft who had just barged in uninvited.

"Did you find him?" Sherlock asked, without missing a beat.

John sat a little straighter, anxiety making his heart rate increase over the beeping monitor. 

"Yes," Mycroft replied solemnly, "he was found dead in his car a few miles east of here, suspected cause of death is acute alcohol intoxication and opioid overdose."

John released a shaky breath, the foundations of his life crumbling beneath him. 

"I'm sorry, John,” he added, which Sherlock heard with shock and disbelief; it was so unlike Mycroft that it was a little unsettling.

Turning to face John, Sherlock gently took his hand, giving it a light squeeze, hoping the gesture would convey what he could not express in words.

Swallowing soundly, John hesitated. His cowardly father had gone and offed himself, unable to deal with who John was and what he had done. It was like a final punch in the stomach, a final stab at John's heart. He couldn't breathe, the weight of what had happened wrapping itself around his chest, pulling him down to the bottom of a deep, dark pit. It was John's fault his father had died, he had made sure John understood that before he had gone.

"I--can I have a moment alone, please?" John asked, his voice as neutral as he could manage.

"Of course." Sherlock gave his hand one last squeeze before letting it go, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He took a step toward the door, then hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

John nodded, perhaps a little too quickly, but Sherlock and Mycroft left anyway, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

Closing his eyes, he felt the tears building before he realised what was happening, and he soon found himself sobbing into his hands. 

He couldn't understand why everything was  _ always his fault. _ No matter what he did, no matter who he pretended to be, things always seemed to happen at his hands. It was as if he was unable to stop destroying everything he touched. His mother's heart attack had been his fault, his father had said as much, the stress of handling John too much to take for her. Harry coming out and leaving, it had been an influence of John's; he had made her leave. John knew that it would only be a matter of time before he fucked something up and Sherlock left. No matter how much John loved, it was never enough for the people around him. 

His father had been the final straw. 

Aware that his heart monitor was beating faster and faster, he tried to stifle the sobs that were rippling through his body. Sherlock and Mycroft definitely didn't have to see him like this.

What was he going to do now? Go home to his empty house full of memories? John didn't think he could survive it, but he didn't see another option available. As soon as he had healed enough to be discharged, he would have to go back home, back to the four walls that had witnessed so much.

Vaguely aware of commotion down the hall, he was surprised to see nurses entering his room and putting an oxygen mask on him. And what was that sound? Who was breathing so fast? And who was screaming? 

The last coherent thought he had before being injected with something into his IV was that he wouldn't mind not waking up again.


	25. Chapter 25

When John’s eyes fluttered open again, after having been knocked out with a sedative for several hours, Sherlock felt something like relief wash over him. “Hey,” he said gently, his thumb tracing circular patterns on the back of John’s hand.

Before John had plunged into drug-induced sleep, Sherlock had heard him scream, an agonising cry that had sent a shudder down his spine, and rushing into the hospital room, he had witnessed his panic attack, a sight he wished he could forget.

Seeing the pain reflected in John's features, the grimace distorting his face, had clogged his windpipe, as if his heart had jumped into his throat and swollen there. More than anything, in that moment, Sherlock would have wanted to hold him and kiss him. To show how much he cared for him, how much he loved him. But before he had had time to do anything, a nurse had injected a sedative into John's IV, and the boy had sunk into unconsciousness.

While John had been asleep, he had had a serious conversation with Mycroft, who, to his utter astonishment, had at once agreed that John should stay with them until they could think of a better solution, the idea of John living alone in his old home poisoned by memories of his abusive father being unthinkable.

"Hi," John mumbled, rubbing his eyes gingerly. If he had been tired before it was nothing compared to the exhaustion he felt now.

“Are you all right?"

John considered lying to Sherlock, trying to reassure him that he was fine, but there was no way in hell Sherlock was going to believe that. The second option was to tell him everything, which didn't seem like an option either. He couldn't tell Sherlock the thoughts he had been having, couldn't put that weight on his shoulders. Besides, he wasn't going to be discharged anytime soon if the hospital staff found out he was verging toward suicidal, his thoughts manic and spinning out of control. Sherlock would hate him and hate the fact that he was so ungrateful; he considered ending everything despite having Sherlock in his life, considered it because, in the end, what John did now wouldn't matter. He was destined to be angry and alone, no matter what other people thought. 

He settled on silence, which was a poor alternative as well, but it was all he could muster.

"John," Sherlock began, wanting to break the uneasy silence hanging over them, "there's something I discussed with my brother while you were... asleep. You don't have to answer immediately. And if you say no, I'll understand. But if you want to... if it doesn't make you uncomfortable, you could, perhaps... stay with us. As long as you like. Or not at all. It's just a suggestion. Don't feel obligated to say yes."

At that John looked up, and without having registered what Sherlock had said or what he was saying himself, he found he had somehow agreed.

Sherlock found himself rambling on, John's silence worrying him, an uneasiness settling in his stomach, "I--If there's anything that you need, or if there's anything that you want to talk about, I'm here. I want you to know that. John, I--I am so sorry. If there's anything I can do, just..." His words trailed off.

"Stop apologising, Sherlock,"  John said, his voice tired and defeated. "I just want to get out of here."

He swallowed at the harshness in John's voice. "I understand. We can leave as soon as your doctor says it's okay."

As the silence stretched out between them, Sherlock lifted his eyes to study John's face, at a loss for words. And then it hit him. 

"John. No. It's not your fault. Oh, no. No, you can't blame yourself."

"I--I can't," John stuttered as he felt the familiar sensation of panic in his throat.

"It's okay," Sherlock said softly, sitting down on the bed beside John. Tentatively, he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer to cradle his head against his shoulder.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's head and buried his face in Sherlock's neck, breathing in the calming smell of him. He took a few steadying breaths before mumbling, "We can talk about it, but not here."

"Whenever you're ready," Sherlock mumbled into his hair.

~~ * ~~

One and a half week passed before John was finally discharged. In that time Mycroft had sent people to collect things from John's childhood home, and John felt more than ready to leave. His thoughts were a little happier after he and Sherlock had talked, but there were still many things brewing below the surface. He wanted to talk to Sherlock about them later, when they were alone in the privacy of Sherlock's home. 

"You ready?" Sherlock asked him with a smile as John took one last look at the hospital room. He nodded, taking Sherlock's hand as they walked together through the medical ward to the dark SUV waiting to pick them up in the parking lot.

The drive to Sherlock's house was spent in silence, John staring out of the window, brooding. Upon being discharged he had been given a set of instructions on how to treat his surgical scars as well as some exercise to help regain some muscle strength in his upper torso. He would be on pain medication for another two weeks to aid his recovery. All of these prospects were neither appealing nor off-putting, and it wasn't really what he was brooding about; it was just another thing on the list of all-things-John-Watson. 

What he felt in the car ride was, surprisingly, nervousness. He hadn't actually been to Sherlock's house before, and he most certainly hadn't met any of his extended family aside from Mycroft. The chances of him making a good first appearance were pretty slim considering John's medical situation and all the traumatic experiences he had recently gone through. He had done a quick search of PTSD online and discovered that a lot of the things described fit his situation perfectly.

He experienced trouble sleeping, he felt easily startled and was nearly always on his guard despite the fact that his father had now passed, and if he was left too long on his own overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame came creeping. At night he had nightmares, and he woke up covered in cold sweat, and he often felt detached from his surroundings, as if he was standing a few feet behind himself, looking over his own shoulder. John figured he should probably talk about these things, but he hadn't had much time alone with Sherlock yet. It would have to wait until they were alone. John felt he owed Sherlock to explain what was happening to him, even though he was reluctant to go into depth regarding his emotions.

If he wanted to survive this, he would have to open up, and he could only imagine Sherlock being the one he opened up to. Mary was great, yes, but she would never understand the way Sherlock did. He hadn't been in contact with her since the shooting but Mycroft had told him that she knew what she had to know regarding his situation, and that she wished him a speedy recovery.

"John, earth to John," Sherlock nudged John's shoulder. "We're here." 

"Sorry," John said, shaking his head to pull himself from his thoughts. Looking out of the window he let out a gasp. "Wow, you never told me you lived in a bloody  _ castle." _

The house was two stories high, the concrete cladding a bright white, grey marble pillars lining the front door. Windows facing the front yard were large and let in a lot of light, and John had no doubt that the inside would be as grand as the outside.

"Oh, it's not  _ that  _ big," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes, but couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips when he saw John's awed expression.

"I think it is a pretty good size," John said, his mood lifted already, and gave Sherlock a cheeky wink.

Feeling his cheeks heat up at the insinuation, Sherlock simply smiled sheepishly in response. "Ready to go inside?"

Nodding enthusiastically, John followed Sherlock as he led the way through the dark oak front door and into a grand hallway with speckled marble floors and a mahogany staircase leading upstairs. The house seemed empty aside from Mycroft who met them at the foot of the stairs. 

He nodded at them in greeting before scurrying off down the corridor toward his office. 

"My room's upstairs," Sherlock said and pulled John along with him. "I assume my idiot brother will have arranged a guest bedroom for you, your things will be in there." 

At that, John hesitated a little. He wasn't sure he felt comfortable sleeping alone when he knew nightmares awaited him.

"Uh, yeah, thanks," he said awkwardly and scratched the back of his head.

Sherlock paused and turned to John, his forehead creasing into a frown as he scrutinised his face. "John," he began slowly, "you’re welcome to sleep in my room. Or I could sneak into yours."

"Please," he breathed, relieved, "yeah, yes, I--I'd like that." He added with a sheepish grin, "I've missed you sleeping on me."

"Me too," Sherlock said with a smile, feeling something warm bloom in his chest.

Sherlock stopped outside his room and let John enter first, closing the door behind them.

Sherlock's room was organised chaos, clutter of books and notes filling most of the desk and bookshelves, a microscope and laboratory equipment on the desk's centre. Open chemistry and biology books lay strewn on Sherlock's bed, as well as a phone charger. His bed was still made; John knew Sherlock didn't sleep much. Something warm fluttered in his stomach at the thought of Sherlock lying there, texting him. Was this where Sherlock had been when he had called him the first time? What had his thoughts been? 

There was so much John wanted to know, but wasn't sure how to ask. When did Sherlock know he had been attracted to him? Had he thought about John in... that way, lying there on the bed?

Overwhelmed by all the new things he was discovering, John sat on the bed, tossed the books onto the floor and got under Sherlock's covers, burying his face in the pillow. 

"Smells like you," he sighed happily as he felt the weight of another person sitting down on the bed's edge.

"And what do I smell like?" Sherlock asked, lowering himself beside John on top of the covers. He turned sideways to face John, his head propped up by his bent elbow.

John leaned in to smell a trail up Sherlock's neck, just to be sure, before answering, "Expensive shampoo and cigarettes. You smell too good." He pretended to sniff up and down Sherlock's neck and shirt, as if he was a hound sniffing for a trail, the air on Sherlock's skin tickling.

"Oh,  _ please," _ Sherlock said, the eye roll evident in his tone, burrowing his head into John's neck, inhaling his scent, "you smell better."

As they had left the disinfectant-reeking, sanitised hospital corridors, Sherlock had felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his chest, the seemingly perpetual tightness in his rib cage finally dissolving. To see John there, beside him on his own bed, made most of his worry vanish, as though they somehow were safer now that they no longer were surrounded by IV lines and breathing tubes and heart monitors.

"Kiss me," John breathed against Sherlock's skin, his hands in his hair, tugging on the dark strands of hair.

Sherlock wasn't prepared for the sudden surge of emotion that flooded him, choking him. His throat tight, he caught John's chin and lifted it, leaning down to kiss him, hoping that the silent movement of his lips would convey the emotions that he couldn't find the words for.


	26. Chapter 26

Three days had passed since they had left the hospital, and John, to Sherlock’s great relief, seemed to be settling in. The days had glided by idly, reminding Sherlock of the lazy summer days he had spent smoking cigarette after cigarette in the scorching heat of the July sun for lack of anything better to do. The only difference was that this time he wasn’t slowly perishing of boredom, John proving to be a welcome distraction from his incessantly racing thoughts.

When Mycroft, on the fourth morning back at home, strode into the kitchen where he was having breakfast with John—well, John was doing the eating, finishing his third piece of toast with melting butter on top, while he was watching him from the corner of his eye, sipping at his tea whenever the boy threw a suspicious glance at him—Sherlock knew by the solemn look on his brother’s face that the freedom, which they had been enjoying ever since John ended up in the hospital, was coming to an end.

Sighing in exasperation, Sherlock dramatically uncrossed his legs and turned his face toward Mycroft who had paused next to the kitchen table, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface. “When?” he demanded, letting his brother know that he was very well aware of what he had come to say. They had missed almost two weeks of school, Sherlock having refused to attend classes while John was lying in hospital in a fragile condition, and although he despised the idea of going back to being a sitting duck for his bullies, he knew that it was high time they went back.

"Tomorrow," Mycroft said between pursed lips, and John shot him a confused glance. Sherlock sometimes forgot that John didn't understand things like he did, and he rolled his eyes at him,  _ you're an idiot  _ being said soundlessly. John rolled his eyes back at him, _ twat _ , and turned toward Mycroft, determined to get clarity on the conversation by his own means. 

"Tomorrow, what?" he asked, some bread crumbs falling from the corner of his mouth as he chewed. 

Mycroft ogled him strangely, "You go back to school."

Carefully, John swallowed the last of his mouthful of bread and considered the idea for a moment. He had indeed missed nearly two weeks of school, and  _ God  _ knew he was falling behind; there was so much work he would have to do in the coming weeks to be able to sustain his grades and be accepted to study medicine. At school, of course, there were Jim and his cronies, and Victor, but despite those things he found himself nodding in agreement, those idiots be damned. Now that he had Sherlock by his side he wasn't afraid to face any of them.

Sherlock glanced at John, trying to read his expression, and was slightly surprised to find that he showed no signs of being upset or worried. He, on the contrary, couldn't stop the uneasiness that was spreading inside him, making his stomach flutter uncomfortably. As if it wasn't enough that he had to constantly keep his head down to avoid being noticed by Jim and his "pals", Victor, who was proving to be more dangerous than Sherlock had thought, would be there too.

But what worried him the most, was that he did not know--and he hated not knowing--how he was supposed to act around John at school, uncertain whether the boy wanted others to find out about them or if he wanted to keep their relationship, or whatever they had, a secret. He didn't even know if John was his boyfriend; he had assumed as much, but then again, they had never discussed the matter. All this uncertainty was making him feel sick to his stomach.

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat, he forced the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, determined not to let John notice his inner turmoil.

Turning his face back to John, Sherlock blatantly ignored his brother as if he weren’t right there, hovering beside the kitchen table, his plump fingers still resting on it, no longer drumming, and clasped his hands together under his chin. “So,” he began, slowly, “how would you like to spend your last day of freedom?” His lips twitched into an unintentional grin.

He heard Mycroft mutter something under his breath, and saw from the corner of his eye that, giving an exasperated eye roll, his brother turned on his heel and left the room without a word, and Sherlock had to resist the urge to smirk with self-satisfaction, feeling rather pleased with himself, having managed to annoy his usually collected older brother.

"Well, since you're asking," John said smugly as he took a sip of tea, "there were some things I had in mind."

"Let's hear them," Sherlock said, his eyebrow quirking up with interest.

"Well," John finished his last piece of toast in one bite, chewing it down as he stood from his chair, stalking over to Sherlock. He leaned in against Sherlock's ear and whispered, "I'm afraid none of them are... decent."

"Consider my interest piqued," Sherlock replied breathlessly, John's breath hot against his ear.

"Hmm..." John walked around Sherlock, as if inspecting him, circling him like a predator, and Sherlock swallowed soundly. "We'll see about that," he said and took Sherlock's hand, practically dragging him upstairs behind him. The pain in his ribs had faded by now and the surgical scar had healed well, and John was growing increasingly  _ desperate  _ for Sherlock, wanting to feel him again. It had been so long, far too long, and John just wouldn't have it anymore, he  _ couldn't _ . He had healed enough, his body physically aching to touch Sherlock. 

Slightly flustered, Sherlock followed behind John, and soon they were in his bedroom, and suddenly he felt himself being pinned against the locked door, John's chest pressed flush against his, his hands pinning his hips to the wooden door behind him. 

John's lips crushed against his, their breaths mingled, tongues interlacing with one another, hands desperately reaching underneath clothing. Moving his lips down, John sucked gently on Sherlock's carotid pulse, revelling in the incoherent sounds Sherlock was making. 

"Fuck,  _ oh fuck _ , John,  _ John, _ " he panted as he continued his ministrations down his neck, sucking on the sensitive skin behind his ear while sneaking his hands underneath Sherlock's shirt, trailing his hands across the hard surface of his abdominal muscles. Resisting the urge to grind his throbbing erection against Sherlock, he pinned him harder to the door, his fingers digging into his hips, almost painfully but not really. 

"You," he kissed down his exposed collarbone, "are gorgeous."

Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John's hair as his lips reached lower, his left hand coming up to unbutton the top buttons of his shirt, John discarding it onto the floor and pressing their chests together again. John  _ adored  _ the little sounds Sherlock was making; the whimpers as his teeth grazed gently across his skin, and the moan as his fingers flicked across his sensitive nipples.

_ "John," _ was all he managed to breathe as he felt his  _ tongue _ on the skin around his nipples, and Sherlock thought this must be the most obscene thing he had ever witnessed: John flustered, his skin pink, his neck bent down as he licked a trail down Sherlock's stomach. " _ Fuck, John _ , I need--I need  _ more," _ he breathed desperately and John shot him a wicked grin, bringing his head up to kiss Sherlock again, hands releasing his hips, placing them in the dark mop on his head, tugging gently but not painfully. 

And then John felt himself being pushed off the door, pushed backward onto Sherlock's bed, Sherlock's thighs straddling his waist, his nimble figure leaning down to positively devour his face. 

"Fuck _ , Sherlock, _ " he moaned as Sherlock bit down on his lip, his hand cupping John's cock through his clothes.

"Too many layers," Sherlock murmured as he helped John pull his shirt over his head, unbuttoning his jeans at the same time, both pairs discarded as they pressed their sweaty chests against each other. 

_ "Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, Sherlock," _ John managed to utter through clenched teeth as their erections rubbed together through the thin fabric of their boxers, Sherlock smiling at his brain's utter lack of  _ functioning. _

The bright morning sun was gleaming in through the slits of the shut blinds, casting narrow stripes of light across John’s face, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his forehead, and Sherlock had to lean down and kiss him, heatedly diving his tongue into his mouth, searching for John's, rolling them together, the gorgeous sight of John making him feel hazy.

Kissing him desperately, Sherlock took hold of John's wrists and placed them above his head, and he leaned in, whispering in his ear, "I want you to fuck me". 

John had to try very hard to not come there and then, wanting to savour the moment for as long as possible. "Are you sure?" he asked, propping himself up on his elbows, eyeing Sherlock to make sure this was what he wanted, but he just nodded and bit hit bottom lip, hunger present in his dilated pupils and laboured breath. "Okay," John said, and sat up properly, "I--do you, I've never--" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, opening his bedside drawer, revealing his stash of condoms and lube, and John swallowed soundly. He was nervous, and he could tell Sherlock was too, and he had never actually done this with another man before, and he  _ sure as hell  _ didn't want to hurt Sherlock.

Reaching over for the lube, he looked over at Sherlock to find him already lying on his stomach, and he frowned in confusion. "Sherlock?" He nudged his shoulder slightly. "What are you doing?" 

Sherlock turned around and looked slightly bewildered, a pout on his lips, and he turned around completely. "What? Isn't this what I'm supp--"

Oh.

_ Oh.  _

Realisation hit John like a hard slap in the face; this was what Sherlock was used to, what he _ thought  _ it was all about, a fast and quick shag. He was doing this for  _ John _ . Something ached in his chest at the thought of Sherlock in this position, so vulnerable and insecure, and it just wasn't right.

"Sherlock, no," John began. The frown on Sherlock's face deepened, and he stuttered, "D-did I do something wr-wrong? This is what I--what  _ he--" _

He didn't finish the sentence, John crushing their lips together again, trying to kiss all the pain he had experienced away. John wanted this to be a good experience for the both of them, but if Sherlock wasn't actually ready for this there was no way he was going to proceed.

Apparently seeing the hesitation on John's face, Sherlock grabbed his hands, "John, look at me. I  _ want _ this, I just don't know how--will you show me?" 

John nodded slowly. He was aware of the theoretical facts behind anal sex, but he had never practiced it himself, but the sincerity on Sherlock's face made something stir in the pit of his lower abdomen again, and he grabbed Sherlock's face, pressing him backward into the mattress again, sliding both their pants off, both moaning as their cocks touched, John's lips everywhere on Sherlock's face and neck. 

Asking one last time if Sherlock was sure, John coated his fingers with lube and returned to kissing him languidly, their tongues dancing around each other, breathing seeming impossibly difficult. John's fingers found their way to Sherlock's entrance, and he prodded gently, earning a squirm from Sherlock. 

"You okay? Tell me if you want me to stop." 

Sherlock nodded, getting used to the sensation, before John pressed a finger inside and Sherlock gasped; this wasn't at all what he had previously experienced, because this was gentle and caring, and Sherlock felt himself relax around John’s fingers. He let out a loud groan as John moved his finger around his tight muscle, but it didn't hurt, and so John added a second finger, moving them with scissoring movements until Sherlock once again relaxed around him. A thick layer of sweat was coating Sherlock's brow and he was whimpering lustfully as John moved inside him.

His head pressing against the mattress as his hips lifted with an unintentional jerk, Sherlock reached for John's shoulder to have something to hold on to, something to ground him, his fingers digging into his collarbone, as pressure pooled low in his belly, his thighs trembling.

"John," Sherlock rasped, between his gasps, "I--I need..." His words trailed off, his breath hitching in his throat, as John sank his fingers deeper inside him, the movement sending shivers down his legs.

"I got you," John murmured as he added a third finger, twisting his fingers upward, hitting something hard, and Sherlock cried out. Angling his fingers further, he aimed to hit that spot again, watching as Sherlock's hips jerked and his thighs squirmed. 

"Oh my god,  _ fuck,  _ John,  _ John, _ John."

Sherlock dug the fingers of his left hand into the mattress, biting back another moan, as John twisted his fingers, rubbing inside him, his entire body quivering under his touch.

“More. I--I-- _ fuck.” _ He was panting, sweat slowly dripping down his bare chest, pooling in his navel. The pleasure building inside him was something he had never experienced before, so raw, so  _ intense, _ so… His thought was cut off by a groan he realised came from his own throat, John’s breath suddenly hot against his inner thigh.

Sherlock strained his head up, his eyes locking with John’s, his eyes blazing with lust, his pupils fully dilated, making his eyes look dark and wild. The eye contact made him shiver, and biting his lower lip, he let his eyes wander over the boy’s face that was hovering over his cock, his parted lips darkened, his cheeks flushed, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, strands of hair clinging to his damp skin. John’s ragged exhales tickled his skin, hot and damp, raising goosebumps all over his trembling body.

“I need you. Closer,” Sherlock breathed, pushing up on his elbows, suddenly desperate to feel John’s lips against his.

John complied happily, crushing their lips together, whispering, "I adore you," against pink skin, his hands roaming over Sherlock's body, his sticky fingers resting by his face. Overwhelmed by affection, John ravished Sherlock's mouth, prying it open with his tongue, tasting the inside of his mouth. 

Sherlock broke the kiss apart, his breath merely a whisper, "I'm ready."

It was the sweetest thing John had ever heard, and he propped himself up on his elbows, searching Sherlock's face for signs of doubt or fear, but he saw none.

Lining himself up against Sherlock's entrance, he looked into his eyes and pressed their lips together languidly as he pushed the tip of his cock inside, the muscles around him tight and hot.

Sherlock let out a groan and John waited until he felt the muscle relax around him before pushing further, soon fully sheathed inside, sweat running down his neck and back. 

Sherlock's cheeks were flushed hot pink, his curls sticking to his sweaty brow, and he was without a doubt the most gorgeous thing John had ever seen, that cheeky smile hinted on his pursed lips.

"Ready?" John breathed, already feeling the dizzying sensations coiling in his lower extremities, but adamant to take it slow. 

Sherlock nodded, and John started moving. It was slow and gentle, and Sherlock arched his back when John hit his prostate, their lips kissing lazily, John's hand coming down to stroke his cock, his movements becoming irregular and erratic, the pleasured sounds Sherlock was making almost enough to send him over the edge.

He could feel nails digging into his back and he moaned into Sherlock's mouth, stroking him a little harder, his breathing coming in short and hard bursts.

“Harder,” Sherlock gasped, pulling John’s hips down against his, his inhibitions fading, as John sank into him, each push sending shivers along his arms and legs, John’s frantic breathing matching his own.

The sound of their skin on skin and Sherlock's desperate begging pushed John closer and closer, his hips moving of their own accord, slamming against Sherlock's prostate with every thrust. Sherlock was a writhing mess underneath him, his hands gripping anything of John's he could reach, their lips not meeting but their breaths shared. When John felt Sherlock clench around him and hot liquid spurt across his hand, he thrusted once more, frantic, his thighs clenching as he came, his arms trembling, struggling to keep his weight up as he collapsed on Sherlock and rolled off, leaving him some space to breathe.

When John had regained his breath, his arm lazily slung across Sherlock's chest, he asked, "You okay, love?"

Burying his face in the crook of John’s neck, Sherlock managed a vague, “Mmhm.” His body was still reeling from the orgasm, his heart pounding in his chest, his limbs heavy and warm.

John lay his head against Sherlock's chest, listening to the rapid beating of his heart, his fingers trailing a lazy pattern across the short chest hair on Sherlock's pale, luminescent skin. 

"I love you," he breathed, and thought he had never been so happy before.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered into John's hair, his heart giving a little leap at his words.

 

After lying beside John for some time, snuggled closely against his side, Sherlock’s mind began to clear, the haziness in his head lifting. Opening his eyes, he stole a glance at John, his features relaxed and peaceful, almost ethereal in the dim light of the room, his chest rising and falling at a steady pace. His heart gave a flutter at the sight, emotion suddenly welling up inside him. He loved John  _ so much. _

“John,” Sherlock began, hesitating. They hadn’t really talked about what had happened, and he was desperate to know how John was  _ really  _ holding up after his father’s death. John had assured him that he was fine whenever he had had a chance to ask, but his red-rimmed eyes after his showers, the dried tear streaks on his cheeks in the mornings, and his evasiveness every time they neared the topic had not gone unnoticed by Sherlock.

"What is it?" he tensed up immediately, sensing Sherlock's hesitation. He realised they would _ have _ to talk about it, about everything that had happened, and he supposed this was a good a time as any other.

Sherlock swallowed. "I just... I just want to know how you're doing. _ Really _ doing. Just... please, be honest with me."

John nodded slowly, considering Sherlock's question, before speaking, his voice low and strained. 

"When I was six years old, my mother died," he began, clenching his fists and closing his eyes, listening to Sherlock's breathing. "Heart attack, very young, possibly stress-induced. Dad blamed me for it, said I killed her by existing, and I--he became violent," John's voice faltered slightly. "When my sister, Harry, came out a few years ago he blamed it on me, said I had  _ influenced  _ her to become a dyke, a whore, I--that Christmas I spent at the hospital. He had lashed out at Harry, I got between them, I--" He flinched at the memory. "I hate him, so much, but the only person I ever blamed was  _ me, _ and now he's _ dead _ and it's also my f-fault."

John tried desperately to hide the tears that were clouding his vision, but they had already started spilling over. He tried to stifle a sob, his face buried in Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock turned on his side, his heart aching in his chest, and wrapped his arm around John, pulling him closer. "It's okay. You can cry." 

As John buried his face deeper into his chest, Sherlock caressed his back, stroking it gently, and said, quietly but firmly, "None of that is your fault, John. Your father was a sick man and he had no right to take his anger out on you. But he did, and I am so sorry that you had to go through that. But know that there's nothing you could have done, or should have done, differently. Your father was inhuman, cruel, and downright sadistic, and nothing would have changed that."

Saying nothing, John simply cried, the silence stretching around them comfortable and calming. His eyelids were becoming heavy as Sherlock stroked his hair, whispering in his ear, John could have sworn it was a melody he was humming, and he drifted off to sleep, the weight in his chest a little lighter than before. 


	27. Chapter 27

Later that same day, after the sun had begun its descent, colouring the dining room with a golden hue, Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the long side of the table, John opposite him and Mycroft at the end. They were eating Chinese takeaway together—John had insisted that Mycroft should join them—and Sherlock was becoming acutely aware of the reason behind this sudden invitation.

He hadn’t forgotten that he had promised John that he would tell his brother about Victor, and the fact that John had reminded him of their agreement just a few hours earlier and was now giving him meaningful glances across the table, made it plain impossible for him to dodge the subject.

As an awkward silence stretched out between them, Sherlock kept his eyes on his plate, fiddling with his fork, pushing pieces of chicken back and forth with it, hoping, despite knowing better, that John would let the matter go.

After watching the pair of them throw knowing glances between each other for a good twenty minutes, Mycroft sighed, resigned, and rolled his eyes. 

"For  _ God's sake _ , would you just spit it out?"

John cleared his throat and nudged Sherlock's shin under the table, but gave him an encouraging smile, reaching for his hand, intertwining their fingers. 

"Well,  _ Sherlock  _ has something to discuss with you... I think you'll want to hear it."

Awkwardly, Sherlock lowered his fork onto the plate, and clearing his throat, he lifted his eyes to meet those of Mycroft in an attempt to preserve some of his dignity.

"Well, yes," Sherlock began, then paused to clear his throat again. "I have some information regarding a particular _... person  _ whose role was crucial in the unfortunate event of John being shot."

Squeezing his hand gently, John continued for him, acid in his tone, "Victor Trevor, ring any bells?"

He then turned back to Sherlock who had paled a little at the mention of his name and said, "Breathe for me, Sherlock, you're doing great. Can you tell Mycroft what he did?"

Sherlock cleared his throat for the third time, and immediately made a mental note that he had to stop doing that. "Well, um," he mumbled, his throat feeling suddenly dry, "he... well, I  _ suppose  _ you could say that he, um, used. Me."

Sherlock could feel heat spreading up his neck, and he had to lower his gaze, his eyes unfocused on the plate in front of him.

Mycroft's eyes were on him like a hawk, and John thought he had never seen something more terrifying; he was fuming, his fists clenched, his eyes cold and calculating, like a weapon of mass destruction waiting to go off. 

"He did  _ what? _ Sherlock,  _ what did he do to you?" _

"Oh, nothing much," Sherlock replied airily, feeling Mycroft's gaze drilling into him.

And then Mycroft, who had managed to surprise him more than once already this month, surprised him yet again as he scooted his chair closer and put a tentative hand on his shoulder, Sherlock's eyes widening in alarm.

"Sherlock," he said softly, and there was a warmth to the way he said his name, "tell me what he did. Please."

Mycroft never begged.

Swallowing around the dryness in his throat, Sherlock took a deep breath, bracing himself, and then blurted, "He forced me to have sex with him. On several occasions."

Nodding, Mycroft squeezed his shoulder again, before kicking his chair back and turning to his phone, pressing speed dial and storming out of the room. 

Before turning down the corridor, Mycroft turned back around and said, softly, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. He will never touch you again." Sherlock had never seen emotion displayed so openly on his face before. 

But then he was gone, his voice over the telephone hushed but deadly serious. John wouldn't be surprised if a certain teenager ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.

Their fingers still interlocked, John turned to Sherlock. 

"I'm so proud of you, Sherlock."

Sherlock attempted to give him a smile, but it fell short. He did not feel the least bit proud; he felt ashamed and pathetic for having trusted Victor and having fallen into his trap. He knew that he should have seen the warning signs that had been right in front of his eyes, but he had been so stupid, so utterly and completely _ foolish _ , and contrary to his better judgment, let Victor take advantage of him, simply because it had felt good to be wanted for once.

"Sherlock, love, look at me," John murmured, cupping Sherlock's cheek. "It's like you said earlier, it's not your fault, you couldn't have known or prevented it. I've never been more proud of you than I am now."

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. He didn't know what to say, so he just nodded, his lips curling up slightly. And this time the smile reached his eyes.

~~ * ~~

The following morning, Mycroft personally drove John and Sherlock to school, which Sherlock found a little odd, but he refrained from commenting on it, still a little shocked after Mycroft's display of  _ sentiment _ yesterday evening.

John was sitting quietly by his side, their thighs touching, his backpack between his legs on the car floor, and he seemed nervous as he was staring out of the window, refusing to look at Sherlock. In all honesty, John had dreaded going back to school, going back to  _ Victor _ and  _ Jim  _ and his cronies, going back to all the people that wanted to hurt Sherlock. His ribs were still sore and he wasn't allowed to strain himself to prevent his spleen from rupturing again, and therefore he was afraid he wouldn't be able to protect Sherlock properly. Besides, the tall person in question was fidgeting, obviously also nervous, which was doing nothing to improve his mood. By the time they reached the school gates, his palms were moist with perspiration, but he took a determined breath and opened the car door, stepping outside into the chilly morning air.

Dew lay heavy across the lawn, the strands of grass folded from the weight of the added water, and the cool air felt refreshing against John's clammy skin. Looking behind him, he spotted a sulking Sherlock appearing from the black vehicle, and he hesitated outside the gate as the SUV drove off. 

"Do we--do I--" Sherlock started asking uncertainly, and John understood what he was asking without him having to voice his concerns. He wasn't sure what to do now that they were back, didn't know if John wanted them to be public or not. 

John smiled and grabbed Sherlock by the hand, dragging the both of them up to the school doors. Nobody was ever going to keep him away from Sherlock again.

As they walked together, hand in hand, they spotted Mary sitting perched on the staircase leading up to the main entrance door, and when she spotted them she instantly ran up to John and pulled him into a hug. 

"John, are you alright?" she breathed, then noticed their interlocked hands, giving them a knowing smirk. 

"I'm fine, Mary,” John laughed. He had missed her company. "I'm sorry for not keeping in touch, I've been... busy."

Mary smiled sadly at him, "I know, your brother”--she nodded toward Sherlock--"he told me what happened. I'm so sorry, to both of you." 

"It's okay, Mary,” Sherlock reassured her, his baritone voice low but sincere, a fondness displayed in his eyes. Then they turned calculating, moving up and down Mary's slim frame, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you hiding, Mary?" he asked, not unkindly, but with slight irritation flicking across his features. 

"I--" she pulled out a folded newspaper article from her back pocket and handed it to Sherlock. "This."

_ Local student arrested, charged with several crimes. _

_ Yesterday evening, police officer Gregory Lestrade arrested a teenage student on several accounts of sexual abuse, possession of controlled substances, several accounts of theft and distribution of controlled substances. During the arrest, the suspect sustained major injuries as he resisted the arrest and became aggressive, and is to be further charged with obstruction of justice. The subject is to be questioned by the police after his hospital discharge. _

As his eyes skimmed the article, instant recognition flashed through his mind, and Sherlock felt relief flood through him, washing away most of the fear that had been looming in the back of his mind ever since he had opened his eyes that morning.

Victor Trevor had been arrested. 

He wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him in the school corridors anymore, nor would he have to fear being forcefully pulled into a bathroom stall when he least expected it. His brother wasn’t completely useless after all, Sherlock thought, as he handed the article to John who was straining his neck forward to see the small print.

"Remind me to stay on Mycroft's good graces," John chuckled as he finished the article, "I'm glad to be rid of him." 

John thanked Mary for the update and listened patiently as she gushed about her new girlfriend, Irene Adler, and he was genuinely happy for her. Even Sherlock engaged in light conversation, which was surprising to John, but then again, Sherlock never  _ stopped _ surprising him.


	28. Chapter 28

For the first time in his entire school career, Sherlock felt happy—well, happy was somewhat of an overstatement, he thought, but he felt rather content, something he had deemed an impossible, or at least a highly improbable, feat—to be at school. He knew that his elated mood was due largely to the fact that John was holding his hand, seemingly indifferent to the googly-eyed glances and undisguised stares that they were receiving from their fellow peers, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And what was more, he did certainly not mind that the boy was beaming at him every time he made an attempt at meaningless chitchat, or exchanged some tedious pleasantries, a smile that made something warm blossom in his chest.

By the end of his third-period history class, all his earlier anxiety had evaporated, and he found himself letting his guard down a bit, too occupied with thoughts of John to bother keeping his head low, or to hide the idiotic grin on his face, a giddiness bubbling up inside him. 

Hurrying his steps, Sherlock headed for the smoking area where he was supposed to meet John after having endured the dullest, most tiresome history class, already longing to be close to him again, a forty-five-minute lecture suddenly feeling an unreasonably long time to be away from him.

He didn't notice the cluster of people until he unceremoniously bumped into them.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't our favourite _ freak, _ " Jim sneered at him, Anderson and Leo sniggering from behind Jim. A heavy weight settled in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, but he attempted to remain nonchalant, indifferent. 

_"Oh,_ _for God's sake._ Get out of my way." 

He tried pushing through the human blockade, but Anderson grabbed the collar of his shirt before he managed to stalk past them.

"I don't have time for this," he snapped, but the familiar fear had already begun to tighten his throat.

“Why not?" Jim asked as Anderson pinned him against the corridor wall. "Too busy fucking your faggot boyfriend?"

"Leave John out of this," Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth, a sudden flash of anger sparking inside him.

Having hit a sensitive nerve, Jim looked far too pleased with himself, a cold smile plastered on his face.

"There, there. We wouldn't want you to do something...  _ radical _ , now, would we?" Jim said as he inched closer to Sherlock, his breath smelling of peppermint.

"Quite delicious, your little pet," he said. "What do you say, Anderson? Should I have my way with your little Johnny-boy?"

The words sent his heart sinking into his stomach, and he barely managed to suppress a shudder, but determined to seem unaffected, Sherlock all but growled, "If you so much as lay the tip of your finger on him--"

Everything happened extremely fast and even Sherlock had a hard time keeping up with the flurry of action before him. 

In the blink of an eye, Jim was being pinned to the wall by a short, furious-looking, blond boy, his fist connecting with Jim's nose, the cracking sound of bones being crushed ringing in Sherlock's ears.

"Easy there, Watson," Anderson said, having released his grip on Sherlock, and took a few staggering steps backward. "We were only kidding, we never mean--"

He didn't get to finish the sentence before John punched him square in the face. Having regained some momentum, Sherlock broke out of his trance and went for Leo, his fist colliding satisfyingly with his side, and the boy grunted as Jim scrambled to his feet, and the three of them scurried off down the hall, heads slumped in defeat.

John shouted after them, "Stay away from my boyfriend.” His tone was cold and riddled with deadly fury. 

Then John was on Sherlock in an instant, searching his face and exposed skin for damage, pressing their foreheads together. 

"You okay?" he asked Sherlock.

Leaning his hands against his thighs, Sherlock took a few steadying breaths, his whole body quivering with adrenaline.

"I am now. Uh... thank you." Then it hit him. "Wait, boyfriend? You--you mean... I'm your..."

John faltered a little, unsure if he had made the wrong choice in assuming they were boyfriends. "I mean--I thought you.. if you don't want to I--"

"No, John," Sherlock cut him off. "I want to. I do. I just... I just wasn't sure if you did, too."

Relieved, John grinned at him and leaned in, pressing their lips together, not a care in the world if anyone saw them, then said, "Should we go have that smoke, boyfriend?"

"Obviously," Sherlock grinned, blushing, "boyfriend."

Sneaking one hand underneath Sherlock's shirt, his fingers ghosting across the skin, John winked and pulled away, dragging a wobbly Sherlock out the door with him.


	29. Chapter 29

The rest of the term came and went in a flurry of exams, laborations, essays and group assignments. Sherlock helped John along as well as he could, and somehow come Christmas, John had managed to excel in the classes he was taking, chemistry included. Somehow Sherlock found his own work a lot less dull when he was doing it together with John, and to his teachers' surprise, his attendance for the remaining school weeks was practically flawless.

They had had no more run-ins with Jim and his cronies, and for that both John and Sherlock were grateful. It had taken some time, but soon they had been able to start relaxing, even at school. The gossip and the giggling behind their backs had stopped within a week or so; people bored easily when they seemed unaffected by the rumours that were spreading, and found some other budding romance to spend their free time gossiping about. It left John and Sherlock with a certain level of peace. They spent their lunches together with Mike and Mary in the cafeteria, and sometimes Irene tagged along, and they all seemed to be getting along more than adequately. 

To John, Sherlock seemed more relaxed and in his element than he had ever seen him. He loved Sherlock so much it sometimes physically hurt, and sometimes he just  _ had  _ to drag him into the closest toilet or empty classroom and snog him senseless. 

Even Mycroft seemed at ease having John around; although having previously stated the living arrangements would be temporary, he had made no move to change their current situation, and John never brought it up. With the inheritance money he and Harry had split, and the proceeds from selling their childhood home, he had insisted on paying for his stay. If the money he inserted onto Mycroft's account somehow was refunded every month, neither of them mentioned it.

Come Christmas, John was more excited than he had ever been about the impending holiday. Christmas had normally not been a happy time for a Watson, but he longed to spend it with Sherlock and,  _ Christ _ , even  _ Mycroft.  _ He wanted to kiss in front of the fireplace, have Sherlock go on and on about the pointlessness of Christmas and its religious traditions, and how utterly  _ stupid  _ children were to actually believe in Santa Claus, a bearded man who broke into their homes and ate their food. 

_ "Don't you see, John? It's psychotic. John? Are you even listening to me? Why are you laughing?" _

He couldn't wait for the gift he had gotten for Sherlock. Well,  _ stolen  _ was a more accurate description. Having picked up a few tricks from Sherlock, he had managed to pickpocket a set of stainless steel handcuffs off of a police officer during their most recent run-in with the law. John figured they might come in handy in the future considering Sherlock's tendency to get into trouble.

When the school bells rang and they were finally off, John felt giddy with happiness, something he hadn't felt in...  _ ever _ . His joy was spreading to Sherlock, because he seemed unable to stop smiling, even when pretending to be preposterously and profoundly annoyed by John's existence. John still saw the smirk behind the dramatic pouts and sarcastic comments.

~~ * ~~

Much to Sherlock's dismay, John _ insisted _ that they decorate the Christmas tree together. 

"But  _ why, _ John? It's just a stupid tree."

But when they had unboxed the ornaments and started hanging them up, Sherlock had gone into it with full enthusiasm. John just had to laugh at how _ ridiculous _ he was, pretending to hate Christmas and everything it stood for, when he at the same time looked like a child experiencing it for the first time while running around crazily, carrying boxes of decorations.

~~ * ~~

During Christmas brunch, John got to meet Sherlock's parents for the first time, and they weren't at all what he had expected. Compared to their two children, they seemed so... normal. There was no better word to use to describe them; they were utterly ordinary. Although, there was a twinkle to their eyes that John recognised in Sherlock, and they were very nice.

They were all seated around the mahogany dining table, Sherlock next to John, John’s hand resting on his thigh, the warm contact grounding him. Sherlock kept stealing glances at John out of the corner of his eye, the content smile on the boy’s face and the faint blush on his cheeks making something tug at his heartstrings. 

Although Sherlock did not admit it out loud, for the first time in his life, he didn’t mind that it was Christmas. Despite Mycroft’s annoyingly accurate observations, his mother’s fussing, and his father’s painfully embarrassing jokes, he felt truly happy, his mood buoyed by John’s presence.

Mycroft started complaining to his parents and both Sherlock and John rolled their eyes at him.

"It's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas day for at least a week now. How can it  _ only _ be two o'clock? I am in  _ agony.”  _ The syllables rolled off of his tongue like thick honey.

"Behave, Mike," Mrs. Holmes said but there was fondness in her voice and eyes.

Mycroft retorted drily, "Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end."

Sherlock yawned dramatically before helping himself to a ginger nut. “Why are we having brunch? We  _ never _ have brunch,” he grumbled, annoyed.

John kicked him under the table. "What he _ means _ to say, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, is that he's very thankful for the brunch you put together."

Sherlock shot an offended look at him, pushing his lower lip out in a pout, but stayed quiet.

“Thank you, John.” Mrs. Holmes smiled at him warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “We are all very happy that you’re here.”

Smiling warmly, John returned to the delicious food in front of him, and he could see from the corner of his eye that Sherlock was smirking. His boyfriend really was an _ insufferable git. _

Looking around at the people around him, he felt as if he had finally found a family. Sherlock, the love of his life, Mycroft, the insufferable yet strangely endearing brother, and their parents, who were just lovely through and through. It was the best Christmas he had ever had.

~~ * ~~

Later that evening, after Christmas dinner, Sherlock and John were sitting on the edge of Sherlock’s bed in his bedroom, in the dim light of loops of Christmas lights that John had insisted on hanging along the walls.

"So," Sherlock began, his lips turning up into a smirk, "what did you get me?"

John rolled his eyes. "What gave it away? The smudge on my shoes? The crumbs on my shirt?"

"Oh, please. It's obvious. You've been nervous all day, fidgeting and looking at the clock every five minutes. The only probable explanation is that you've got me a present and you're worried that I won't like it."

"Why did I ask?" John muttered, more to himself than to Sherlock, and then turned to look under the bed and then toward him, a carefully wrapped little box in his hands. He handed it to Sherlock and swallowed nervously.

Sherlock sighed. "John, please relax. I'm sure I'll like it."

Slowly, he began to remove the wrapping paper, revealing a small cardboard box. He tossed the wrapping off before opening the lid, his heart giving a little leap when he saw what it contained.

"John, this is..." he began, picking up a pair of handcuffs from the box. "These are real, professional handcuffs. How did you--?"

"Pickpocketed officer Donovan," John grinned.

Perplexed, he stared at him for a moment before bursting out into laughter. "You're showing criminal tendencies, should I be worried?" Sherlock said between giggles.

"What can I say?" John giggled as Sherlock took the handcuffs and placed them in his palm, inspecting them curiously. "I learned from the best."

"I really like them, John. Thank you." Gently, he placed the handcuffs on his nightstand, and leaned to give John a kiss.

Wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, he pulled them close together, their lips meeting slowly and gently.

Sherlock pulled away slightly, clearing his throat. "John, there's something I'd like to... propose." He felt heat creeping up his neck and into his cheeks.

Catching the uncertainty in Sherlock's voice, he cocked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Well, uh... it has to do with sex."

John couldn't stop the grin that was spreading across his face, taking in Sherlock's flushed cheeks. "I'm listening."

Sherlock felt his blush deepen as he cleared his throat again. "I was thinking... and we don't have to, I mean, it's okay if you don't want to... but you know, when we have sex, it's usually you who um... you know, but perhaps I could... uh..."

"Show me," John breathed, his heart rate increasing at Sherlock's words, blood already pooling in his lower region.

Sherlock lifted his eyes, taking in John's expression, noticing his dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. John didn't have to tell him twice.

“I want you naked,” Sherlock said low in his throat, his frantic fingers already unbuttoning John’s shirt as he placed heated kisses along his neck, sucking the skin into his mouth. He pushed the shirt off his shoulders, tossing it on the floor, his hands splaying across his chest as they moved to his trousers, fumbling to undo his belt.

John whispered, "Yes, sir," as his own hands replaced Sherlock's, quickly undoing his own belt and pulling his jeans down. Sherlock rose from the bed and stood to look at him, never breaking eye contact. Sitting on his knees, John removed his socks, before finally pulling his boxers down, teasingly slow, until John was completely naked, sitting flushed on Sherlock's bed.

His eyes never leaving John’s, Sherlock started to unbutton his own shirt with trembling fingers, shrugging out of it, before proceeding to unzip his trousers, stepping out of them. He made quick work of his boxer briefs and socks, and kicked them aside. He took a step closer, feeling John’s eyes scanning his naked body, and leaned down to kiss him. Hard.

Sherlock pushed John back against the mattress, lowering himself on top of him, bare skin against bare skin, his knees on each side of his hips, his hands supporting him on each side of his head. The heat radiating from John’s body made him feel hazy, and his hips rocked against his almost of their own accord, the friction of his pulsing erection against John’s sending a jolt of pleasure deep to his stomach.

His aching erection straining toward his stomach, slick with pre-come, John reached down between his legs to wrap his fingers around his cock, seeking relief from the pressure building inside him, but Sherlock gripped his wrist in mid-air. 

“Wait. I got an idea,” Sherlock rasped, his breathing laboured. He pushed himself away from him and up from the bed and fumbled on his nightstand until his hand closed around what he was searching for. Climbing back onto the bed, he couldn’t help but grin mischievously as he dangled the object in front of John.

Sherlock watched the slow movement of John’s tongue as he licked his reddened lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down along his neck as he swallowed slowly. He crawled closer to John, so close that he could whisper in his ear, his breath damp and hot against the sensitive skin of his neck, “John Watson, you’ve been bad. Very, _ very _ bad.” Sherlock heard John’s breath hitch in his throat, and he leaned closer, tugging gently at his earlobe, and breathed, “I’m afraid I need you handcuffed, Mister.”

Swallowing thickly, John nodded, releasing his breath in one long, shuddering exhale. Sherlock could see his pupils dilating, his eyes darkening, his gaze wild with pure, unadulterated want. The sight launched shivers down his spine, a surge of heat coiling deep in his belly, and he had to bite back a moan. John was maddeningly gorgeous, he thought, so beautiful, so _ breathtaking. _

“You look so… hot. So fucking  _ sexy _ ,” Sherlock whispered, leaning down to give a small peck on his parted lips, John gasping in response, his cheeks tinted a dark shade of pink.    

His blood pounding in his veins, Sherlock scooted backward on the bed, straddling John’s hips. He took hold of John’s hands, feeling his pulse thudding beneath his thumb, and pinned his wrists above his head, snapping the handcuffs around them in one swift movement. Hovering above John, Sherlock pressed his forehead against his, their lips a mere hair’s width apart, as they breathed each other’s air, John’s ragged exhales hot against his skin. “Now you’re at my mercy,” he husked, and ground his hips against John’s for emphasis, drawing a sharp inhale from him.

Tracing the outline of John’s lips with the tip of his tongue, Sherlock crashed their mouths together, his tongue diving in, sliding against John’s, tasting, exploring. They breathed into each other’s mouths, their exhales sharp and frantic, as their cocks rubbed together, the contact igniting sweet sparks of desire inside him. His lungs burning in his chest, Sherlock broke away to press open-mouthed kisses along John’s cheek, his jaw, down his neck, leaving wet trails of saliva, sucking at the soft skin, eliciting a guttural moan from him.

“Oh, Jesus. Fuck, Sh--“

Sherlock continued downward, scraping his teeth across his chest, pausing to suck on one of his nipples, giving it a gentle bite, feeling it harden under his tongue. He played with it, nibbling and sucking, until John thrusted his hips upward between his thighs, gasping, “Please, Sh--Sherlock. Oh, fuck, oh God. I--I need…”

His breath ghosting over his skin, Sherlock moved down his body, the tip of his tongue tracing a path across the firm plane of his abdomen, the skin hot and slick with sweat, lapping at his navel, following the narrow trail of blond hair painstakingly slowly, lower and lower. He paused just above the base of John’s straining and flushed cock, breathing hot air against the head of it, John’s hips jerking in response, his thighs trembling.

“I--I--Sherlock. I need—”

Blowing hot puffs of air against the flesh of his inner thigh, Sherlock quirked his eyebrow teasingly, ignoring his throbbing erection, and asked, “Yes? What is it, John?” He brought his hand up his thigh, drawing lazy circles on the flushed skin with his fingertips, feeling John’s strong muscles twitch under his touch.

_ "Fuck," _ John groaned, his cursing becoming more and more incoherent with every movement Sherlock's hands made. Lifting his cuffed hands to move into Sherlock's hair, he was stopped by a quick and firm hand around his wrists.

"Don't. Move," Sherlock growled, his voice low and dangerous, his irises barely visible behind the dark void of his dilated pupils. Suddenly at a loss for words, John simply nodded and let Sherlock push his hands back above his head while pinning his hips down onto the mattress with is other hand, and John was almost certain that he had fallen asleep and was currently experiencing an extremely erotic dream. The feeling of teeth grazing his inner thigh snapped him out of his thoughts, the unruly mop of dark curls hiding Sherlock's face as he sucked marks onto John's thighs and calves.

John's sandy hair was becoming increasingly sweaty, and his unruly fringe was starting to stick to his clammy forehead. The folds of his knees were damp with sweat, little droplets running down his calves, the sheets underneath him sticking to his warm skin.

Running his tongue up his thigh, Sherlock inched closer to John’s crotch, tasting the salty tang of his sweat, and paused for a moment, his mouth hovering just above his cock, letting his hot breath tickle the head. His own heart was pounding against his ribcage, his blood pulsing in his ears, as he panted against John’s damp skin, carnal desire sizzling through his veins.

“Please, Sherlock. Just—"

Then, swiftly, drawing a moan and a string of  _ fuck, fuck, fuck _ from John, Sherlock licked up the underside of his shaft with a broad, flat tongue, before taking the head of his cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, flicking it over the slit. As John arched his hips, unintentionally thrusting his cock deeper into his mouth, Sherlock pulled away, his lips curling into a smug smirk, and murmured, “Patience, John.” 

As John craned his neck up to look at him, Sherlock put his thumb on John’s swollen lower lip, brushing across it, his eyes holding his for a long, tense moment, before he abruptly pulled away from him, John’s head falling back against the mattress with a thud.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

With a self-satisfied smirk, the obscene noises that John was making spurring him on, Sherlock rolled from the bed in one fluid movement. As he noticed John’s hungry eyes roaming over his naked body, he moved deliberately slowly despite the intense pressure growing between his legs, making sure that the boy had a full view of his straining erection, flushed and already leaking. He went over to his nightstand and yanked the top drawer open, fumbling around until he found a bottle of lube.

As he returned to the bed, he squeezed some of the clear gel into the palm of his hand, and positioned himself between John’s wide-spread legs, the sight of John’s supine body, slick with sweat, trembling and taut with arousal, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his cock.

Closing his eyes, John tried to regain his breath. He felt as if he had participated in a marathon, his muscles warm and twitching. Eagerly and with anticipation, he waited for Sherlock's next move.

Hesitating a short moment, Sherlock held his cupped palm in the air, sitting on his heels between John’s legs. “John?”

John’s eyes fluttered open, his eyebrow quirking up in question. Coating the fingers of his right hand with lube, Sherlock looked intently at the boy, as if to ask if he was okay with this, if it was okay to proceed.

"Fuck me, Sherlock," John breathed in response, watching with adoration as his cheeks tinged pink.

His words made Sherlock’s cock throb against his stomach, and he swallowed thickly before leaning down, his left hand stroking up and down John’s thigh as he placed the tip of his forefinger against his hole, rubbing over it, circling around and around, until his slick finger slid inside. John’s hips jerked up in response, and he let out a choked moan, his heels digging into the mattress. Sherlock pushed his finger deeper in, probing and prodding, John’s legs shaking, his gasps becoming more and more desperate.

“More. I--I--need more.”

John’s body wrecked with spasms as another finger sank into him, his back arching off the bed, and Sherlock could feel him pulsing around his fingers, the sensation of John’s body clenching around him combined with the sight of him writhing, begging, under his touch, almost enough to push him over the edge.

Pushing in deeper, Sherlock twisted his fingers, brushing his prostate, eliciting a groan from deep in John’s throat, his pelvis lifting off the mattress with a violent jerk, his mouth falling open.

“Sweet Jesus.”

"F-fuck, enough, I'm--I need you, I'm ready," John moaned into the thick air, his thighs trembling with anticipation. "Please, I--" 

Sherlock pulled his fingers out and wiped them on the sheets, before moving up to capture John's lips, his teeth grazing across them.

"I want to hear you  _ beg, _ " Sherlock murmured against John's collarbone, his tongue lapping a wet streak across the sharp indentation of his shoulder.

"Please, Sherlock, need you inside me," John nearly stumbled across his words in his eagerness to feel Sherlock move inside him, to reduce the burning tension pooling low in his cock.

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock rasped, stroking his hands down John’s sides to his hips as he pressed wet kisses across his chest and abdomen, and grabbed the bottle of lube again, squirting a generous amount into his palm. He began stroking his aching shaft, smearing it with lube, his gaze never leaving John’s, his blazing eyes stirring something low in his stomach.

John’s erratic breathing matching his own, Sherlock brought the tip of his cock, dripping pre-come, against his tight ring of muscles, his left hand braced on the mattress. “Say you want it,” he all but growled, his voice low and rough.

"I want you, Sherlock Holmes."

Slowly, so slowly, Sherlock began to sink into John, the hot tightness surrounding his cock sending sweet sparks of bliss through his body. He had never been inside John, and the new sensation overwhelmed him, his entire body quivering with tension as he, bit by bit, pushed his throbbing erection deeper. 

“Oh, God. John, oh--fuck.”

Buried inside John, Sherlock slowly lowered his body down on top of his, John’s bare skin slick against his, his elbows on either side of him, and pressed his forehead against John's, his heart hammering frantically against his ribs.

“You feel so  _ good,” _ he breathed.

Feeling the fullness of Sherlock's length stretching him out, John let out a guttural groan and bit down into Sherlock's shoulder, the new, unusual feeling overtaking all his other senses.

John felt complete, void of any other word to describe it. The other man buried deep inside him, their hearts beating together as if they were one entity, one single organism, one lifeform.

His cuffed arms came up around Sherlock's neck, and he thrust his hips experimentally.

"Okay," John nodded, breathless, ” _ fuck, _ fuck me."

The words, filled with lust, sent a surge of heat straight to his cock, and Sherlock began to move slowly, his hands braced on either side of him, thrusting into him, feeling John’s body stretch around him as sweat dripped down his forehead, down his chest and back.

“You okay?”

"Yes, please, I need more," John said desperately, letting out a load gasp as Sherlock's teeth sunk into his neck, the handcuffs grazing the back of Sherlock's head.

John’s incoherent moans urging him on, Sherlock began to pound his hips, his movements growing more frantic, more desperate. The sound of his hips slamming against John’s loud in his ears, he panted into his mouth, pressure building inside him as his hands dug into the mattress.

As Sherlock slammed into him, John felt the burning climax rising from within his core, a powerful force pooling over at his edges, intense pleasure filling his body from head to toe. He arched his back as he felt his orgasm arriving, Sherlock slamming into him harder as his own pleasure peaked.

Riding John, his thigh muscles flexing and contracting as he pushed harder into him, Sherlock cracked his eyes open to be met by the most gorgeous, obscene view of John Watson lying under him, seemingly on the verge of coming, his lips reddened and wet with saliva, open in a small o, eyes pinched tightly closed, his cheeks flushed pink, a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead. It was enough to push him over the edge. Sherlock went completely still. And then, his back arching, vision fading into whiteness, he came, pulsing and pulsing, as wave after wave of mind-shattering pleasure crashed over him, dimly aware of John’s body clenching around him as the boy reached his own climax.

For a moment they lay there, bare skin to bare skin, their hearts pounding against each other as their breathing slowly grew more regular, their bodies warm and heavy, spent.

"John?"

"Mmm?" John mumbled against Sherlock's neck, his still handcuffed hands resting on his shoulders.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered against his lips. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, Sherlock," he smiled fondly at the face he had come to adore so much over the past few months. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

His heart aching at John's words, Sherlock closed the distance between them, kissing him with all the love and gratitude that he felt for him, making a vow to himself that he would do everything in his power to keep John safe.


	30. Chapter 30

John awoke the next morning with a goofy grin across his face and Sherlock draped possessively across his chest. Their arms and legs were tangled and it was unbearably warm to have that long, pale body flush against his, but John wouldn't have it any other way. Placing a gentle kiss on the top of Sherlock's hair, he felt the younger boy stirring against him, and a long groan confirmed that Sherlock was awake. 

Refusing to face the prospect of ever getting out of bed, Sherlock snuggled closer and buried his head in the nook of John's neck. Lifting his arms to stretch, John whined at the sore, red marks around his wrists, and the undeniable sting from his rectum; John doubted he would be able to walk without wincing, but he was perfectly content with that notion. Last night had been  _ amazing. _

He felt Sherlock's chest tremble, a silent chuckle escaping his lips, and John cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Enjoyed yourself?" Sherlock grinned smugly against John's neck. 

He rolled his eyes, but answered, "It was alright." John practically  _ felt  _ Sherlock's pouting against his skin and he hit him across the head lazily. "Just joking, you idiot. It was incredible."

Sherlock purred contentedly at that, but soon grew bored of lying awake, his lips nipping experimentally against John's neck. As much as John enjoyed Sherlock's ministrations, he pushed him off gently, his whole body protesting at the loss of contact. 

"Not now, love," he said, touching Sherlock's forehead with his thumb.

Sherlock looked ethereal in the soft morning glow, his curls tousled and messy, his eyes bright and awake, his skin pink in places, but mostly a pale shade of ivory. His lips were swollen and red from the night before and he had a content, perhaps a little proud, smile on his face.

"Stop staring, or I might have to fuck you into the mattress right now," Sherlock said cheekily through batted eyelashes, and John momentarily lost track of his thoughts, forgetting completely what he was going to say. 

"I--uh," John blushed and secretly blessed all existing deity for blessing Sherlock with his newfound bold mouth. "Yes," he nodded eagerly, "but first we have to  _ socialise." _   
  
Sherlock groaned. "Why? John, it's so dull, I can practically  _ feel  _ my brain wilting already. Stupid Mycroft and his stupid face." 

John rolled his eyes and tried to stifle a chuckle, looking at Sherlock's sulking posture, his lips shaped into a magnificent pout;  _ nobody _ pouted like Sherlock Holmes. 

"Yes," he responded patiently, "we have to, whether you like it or not. Come on, time to get up. In the evening, we can do whatever you want." 

John winked as he rose from the bed and winced at the painful sensation when he took his first step, semi-limping to the dresser, grabbing some clean clothes for himself and Sherlock. When he turned back, Sherlock had donned his smug grin again.  _ Cheeky git. _

Then he spotted something by the bedroom door, and he frowned in confusion, placing the clothes on the bed beside Sherlock as he walked over and gingerly bent down, grabbing an envelope from the floor. It had obviously been slid underneath the door, and there was something inside it, together with a letter. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock explained, as if that made everything so much clearer. 

"Do we open it?" John asked, unsure what the protocol for brotherly mail was.

"Of course we open it," Sherlock rolled his eyes, practically tearing the envelope from his hands. John jumped back on the bed and sat behind Sherlock, reading the fine penmanship from over his shoulder. 

_ Sherlock and John, _

_ as much as your passion toward each other warm my otherwise cold and unfeeling heart, I do not wish to be included in your exploration of sexual desires or kinks. I would thereby kindly ask you to keep it down whenever you happen to be within my auditory range. I do not wish to be traumatized as well as nauseated, as you leave very little to imagination. _

_ Therefore, please consider this Christmas gift, which is more a gift to myself than to you. I think you will find 221B Baker Street more than adequate for your future... escapades.  _

_ Merry Christmas, _

_ Mycroft _

Inside the envelope lay two keys _.  _

"John?" Sherlock asked cautiously, trying to interpret the blank expression on his face.

John looked at Sherlock, dumbfounded and embarrassed. He wasn't surprised that Mycroft had heard them the previous night, and even if he hadn’t he probably would have been able to read it on John's face, but it still made his cheeks redden. 

"He bought us an  _ apartment?"  _ John asked, incredulous. "That's insane."

"That's Mycroft," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Then, after a pause, he asked, "What do you think?"

He wasn't surprised in the slightest that his brother had gotten them a place of their own; rather, he had been wondering how long it would take him to begin longing for more privacy and an escape from two very horny teenage boys.

All the same, he felt nervous, not knowing if John wanted to move together as badly as he did.

"I--that's so much money," John stuttered, but he couldn't deny the spark of excitement growing in the back of his mind. "I mean, do you--would you want to? I mean, live with me? I--I know it's a huge step and you might not be ready, we can tell Mycroft that it's a generous offer--I understand if you don't--"

John was interrupted by Sherlock pressing their mouths together.

" _ Of course _ I want to live with you, you complete idiot," he felt Sherlock say against his lips and John grinned wickedly.

"Me too."

~~ * ~~

Sherlock lay sprawled across the two-seater leather sofa in the living room, John’s thighs as a warm and snug makeshift pillow. Someone—his father, Sherlock was positive—had lit a fire in the fireplace; Mycroft shunned the fireplace as he would the Great Plague—he hated getting his hands dirty and wouldn’t risk soiling his well-manicured fingers with soot, and his mother constantly, regardless of the season or time of day, complained that the indoor temperature was too high and that she was “sweltering”—this always earned her an eye roll from Sherlock.

John’s fingers were playing absentmindedly with his hair, running through the curly strands, and he leaned into the touch, revelling in the pleasant sensation. The crackle of burning wood punctuated the pleasant silence that had settled over them like a soft blanket, enveloping them in a secure cocoon as if everything beyond the room had ceased to exist. Sherlock felt safe. And happy. As if nothing in the whole universe could harm them, as if they were protected from any danger or uncertainty by some imperceptible force. It was a naïve thought, he knew, but, if only for a moment, he allowed himself to savour that feeling of complete ease.

When the clock on the mantle chimed six times, signifying it was six o’clock, Sherlock suddenly popped his eyes open and squinted up at John’s face, glowing golden-red in the dimly lit room.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Intrigued, John turned his face downwards to look at Sherlock, eyebrow cocked in question. "You do?"

“Yes," Sherlock said, swinging his feet to the floor in one swift movement, sitting upright. "In approximately twenty seconds the doorbell will ring."

Rolling his eyes, John stretched his tired muscles and followed Sherlock out of the livingroom to the marble hallway, silently counting down the seconds to see if Sherlock had been right.

_ Of course he had. _

Twenty seconds later the doorbell rang and John stood back, watching as Sherlock opened the front door to let someone in, and John, who was just about to move, stopped dead in his tracks. 

The woman standing next to Sherlock, who had enveloped him in a hug, was short, her hair a similar blonde to his own, and although her eyes looked tired, she smiled at John.

His sister.

"Harry?!" John exclaimed, equally alarmed and excited. He hadn't actually seen his sister for a very long time, and they hadn't spoken since she had moved out shortly after coming out as gay. "What are you doing here?"

Releasing Sherlock from her embrace, she dropped her bags on the floor and ran over to John, nearly knocking him to the floor with the force of her arms swinging around him in a tight hug. 

"John, I'm so sorry," she whispered against his ear, and he felt moisture forming at the edges of his eyes. "I'm so sorry, that you had to do that alone, I--"

She choked out a sob and John pulled her tighter, sending Sherlock a grateful look over her shoulder, finding him smiling at the pair of them before silently walking off down the corridor with Harry's bag, no doubt giving the siblings some privacy.

"It's okay, Harry," John mumbled, his voice also cracking from emotions, "it's not your fault."

Harry broke away and looked at her brother, a few tears rolling down her cheeks as she took in his expression.

"He really makes you happy, doesn't he?" Harry asked gingerly, and John nodded.

"Very," John said before taking Harry's hand and gesturing her to follow him. "Come with me, we have some catching up to do."

John noticed the ring on Harry's ring finger, an engagement ring, and the fact that she seemed clear-headed, no doubt having been sober for a few months. Harry noticed the hickeys on John's exposed neck, and raised an eyebrow, "That we do, Johnny."


	31. Epilogue

“John! It’s Christmas!” Sherlock twirled around, clutching his phone to his chest as if it were his most precious possession.

John shut the book he was reading with a finger marking his place and looked up with an amused cock of an eyebrow. “It was Christmas five days ago.”

“Oh, don’t be daft,” he said briskly, grabbing his Belstaff coat, already heading for the door, “there’s been a triple homicide.”

_ "Sherlock!" _ John exclaimed, but Sherlock knew that he was a lot less outraged than he pretended to be. Then, looking at Sherlock's coat and the direction in which he was heading, he groaned, "Oh, no, we are so not going to a crime scene."

Sherlock paused, his hand on the doorknob.

"Well, if you'd rather stay here with Mycroft..." He let his voice trail off, looking at John from under his brow, a smug grin playing at the corners of his lips.

Rolling his eyes, John grabbed his coat and followed Sherlock out of the door, barely concealed excitement thrumming in his steps.

When they arrived at the address Lestrade had texted him, they were met by a jumble of grim-faced police officers, crime scene investigators in protective overalls and several squad cars, red and blue lights rotating, parked in disarray within the area restricted by yellow crime scene tape.

"It's your first crime scene then," Sherlock said, lifting the tape for John.

Nodding silently, John ducked underneath the tape and stalked after Sherlock who was already bouncing in his eagerness to get to the scene. John was confused at why no officer seemed to stop them approaching an  _ actual  _ crime scene, but then he saw Sally Donovan in the back, the officer off of whom he had stolen the handcuffs, and she was talking to a young but grey haired detective.

~~ * ~~

Sally Donovan marched into the Detective Inspector's officer that afternoon, determination and quiet fury resounding from her beating heels on the stone corridor. Upon hearing the increasingly irritated woman huff as she stood in front of his desk, Greg lifted an eyebrow in question, already aware of exactly what she was going to say. 

"Please tell me you didn't,” she snapped at him and he had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. 

"Whatever do you mean, Donovan?" he asked innocently, but he knew that she knew. 

"Please tell me you didn't invite that  _ freak."  _

At that, Greg rose suddenly from his chair, almost knocking his cup of coffee off his desk. 

"Now you listen here,  _ Donovan. _ I pay you to solve crimes, not speak nonsense. I will not have you speak of Mr. Holmes in this manner. He has proven invaluable to us on previous crimes and you _ know _ just as well as I do that we are out of our depths on this one. Now, I hope you realise that I have the power to fire you, and I  _ have _ fired people over less. Do you understand?"

A very pale Sally nodded quickly and scurried out, her footsteps receding down the corridor again. Greg sighed. Sherlock could be a massive pain to deal with, but he was extremely clever and Greg cared for the boy a great deal. 

With determination, he downed the last drops of coffee before grabbing his coat and car keys and headed for the police garage, speeding off toward the crime scene. 

Upon arrival he noticed that Sally had somehow beaten him there, but when she spotted Sherlock crossing the police tape, she said nothing.

"Sherlock!" Greg shouted and waved him over, and was surprised to see he wasn't alone. But then...

"Greg?!" John asked incredulously as he jogged over to Donovan and the Detective, Greg's face lighting up into a grin.

"John Watson," he beamed at the shorter boy, "never thought I'd see  _ you _ here."

Sherlock stood extremely still, looking between the two of them before settling his narrowed gaze on Greg, no doubt deducing everything there was to see on his face.

"You," Sherlock said in an accusatory tone, his eyes narrowed into slits, "it was you."

Greg shifted his eyes from John to Sherlock, lifting his hands in mock innocence, but he couldn't help the triumphant grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

He hadn't dared believe that his hastily made up plan would actually work, but there Sherlock and John were, standing right in front of him, their hands nearly brushing, seemingly at ease in each other's company.

John shot them a confused glance. 

"It was you what?" he said just as Greg said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock kept his eyes narrowed toward Greg, before turning to John. 

"He gave me  _ your  _ number, instead of the victim's."

John's eyes widened at the realisation that he and Sherlock, well, they had essentially been set up, and by Gregory Lestrade, no less.

At a complete loss for words, Greg let out a hearty chuckle.

"I thought you were supposed to be a genius," he said, and laughed even harder at Sherlock's kicked-puppy expression, "I can't believe it took you this long to figure it out."

After ten long seconds, Sherlock seemed to regain some of his composure, his brow knitting in a frown. "But why?" he asked. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you're both complete idiots," Greg grinned, and John and Sherlock shared a confused exchange of looks. "Oh, come on. You two are practically _ made _ for each other. You," he gestured toward John, "the most miserable but well-mannered boy I've ever known," he continued and motioned toward Sherlock, "and you, a self-destructive lunatic who claims to care for nobody. You're a perfect fit."

John's confusion turned into a wide smile. 

"I think you're right, Greg," he said softly and beamed at Sherlock, "and thank you, for... him," he gestured vaguely toward Sherlock with his arms and, although Sherlock rolled his eyes, Greg could notice how grateful he also was. 

Greg had never seen the two of them so happy. The worry lines in John's face were gone, although he looked older then he had the last time Greg had seen him. From what Mycroft had entailed, he had been through hell, but he looked strong now, unbreakable and fierce, especially with Sherlock at his side. And Sherlock, who used to be high off his face on numerous substances, looked as sober as a newborn baby, his eyes looking around him with a newfound curiosity and excitement. And Greg wasn't blind to how he looked at  _ John;  _ it was possessively and lovingly, and for once in his life he seemed to be content, the demons in his head contained by the presence of John Watson at his side. Greg couldn't help but smile. 

Sherlock seemed to grow impatient. "Yes, yes, sentiment is very good, but can we please look at the crime scene now?"

John chuckled and Greg rolled his eyes before leading the way, followed by the unstoppable duo; the boy in the large coat and the brave boy with the blond hair.

Somehow, Greg knew that whatever life would throw at them, they would be just fine, as long as they had each other.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is, the finish! We (sherlockianworld and elle_m) would like to thank all the people who have given us comments and kudos. Words can't express how grateful we are. Your kind words and reactions have been what has kept us writing, and kept us striving to be better and do better. It has been hell of a ride, but we sincerely hope that you've enjoyed it. We sure have.


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